Dragon's Blood
by Parmecia
Summary: The sequel to Dragonheart. Now defunct.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is the sequal to Dragonheart. It takes place about two years after Dragonheart, though. Take note of that._

Last Seed 27, 3E433

If there was one thing that Nhiilaa couldn't stand about the Imperial Prison, it was that accursed Dunmer, Valen Dreth. She'd been there all of an hour and the fetcher was already ranting about how she was going to _die in here, Nord, die_! See, this was why no one liked Dunmer: they were all rabidly psychotic. Every single one of them. She wanted to strangle him, but that of course would be frowned upon, considering the charges she was now subject to. Honestly, if the guard had one of those little Bosmer following them around, they would slap them too. They were lucky that she just didn't toss the little fetcher off of Dive Rock, but she really didn't want to deal with the Uderfyke matron, the local legend. Not that she believed in that kind of thing, but after what happened in Solstheim, she didn't want to take the chance.

But now she was stuck here, under the charges of assault and battery. It was a three day sentence maximum due to her history in the City as someone of lawfulness, but it was going to be a _long_ three days with that cretin Dreth in the cell across from her. If they hadn't slit his throat to stop _his_ raving, there was absolutely no chance of them slitting hers. In the past hour, she'd thrown her cup and her jug of water at him, and luckily both hit him squarely in the face, but even that hadn't stopped the jabbering for more than five minutes.

_By Azura, by Azura, by Azura! It's the Grand Champion! I can't believe it's you! Standing here, next to me! _God's blood, now the bugger's ramblings echoed in her head over and over again. Surely she would go mad by the end of three days. Honestly, she hadn't regretted the hitting. Or the attempts to choke the fetcher. Always with the following her around, offering to give her backrubs and what not. He had followed her all the way to Skyrim with her father for an entire _year_, by Ysmir! Most of the time she had instructed him to stay in the basement, which amazingly he did, but once or twice he escaped and followed her around and blathered inanely to her relatives about how amazing her fight with the Gray Prince was. Auntie Inga had a fit when she heard about how Nhiilaa'd been 'skewered through the chest' and insisted that Nhiilaa would just have to stay in bed until she could get Uncle Eifid to pick up some special herbs to take care of the scar. Apparently merely sitting up would irreparably damage her internal organs, despite that she'd been walking and running and fighting just fine before that. On the way home, Ingar had muttered something about Inga being lucky that she was his sister or he might've killed her himself, though it was probably more of that Inga had scolded him and placed the blame on him than her incarceration of his daughter.

Right now, Nhiilaa counted her lucky stars that Ingar didn't know about her imprisonment. He might've broken into the jail just to beat the living daylights out of her, that's how angry he would be if he ever, ever found out. It was a good thing that she didn't really plan on _telling _Ingar about this little incident and that there was no one else that she knew who would even be able to tell him.

Counting the stones of the ceiling of her cell grew boring, and she grew parched. 'Well _now_ I wish I hadn't thrown it at the idiot,' she thought dejectedly. Heavy footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and she sat up at her little table. An old man asked something about dead sons, a woman answered. An _angry_ woman. An angry _Breton_ woman. Now Nhiilaa could see that it was the worst kind of angry Breton woman: an angry Breton woman wearing a sword at her belt and followed by two guards and the Emperor.

Something about that seemed odd to Nhiilaa. First of all, who'd ever heard of a _female_ guard? Well, that one Draconis guard down in Leyawiin, but didn't she get murdered a while back? There was an article in the Black Horse Courier about the entire family getting murdered and how someone somewhere suspected the Dark Brotherhood. Because of course _every_ serial killing was because of the Dark Brotherhood. And secondly, what the hell was the Emperor doing in the Imperial prisons? The Imperial prisons weren't exactly pleasant, let alone sanitary, so it couldn't have been for the beauteous landscapes and amazing architecture. Nor could he really have wanted to visit Dreth all that badly. Nhiilaa doubted whether Dreth's own mother wanted to visit him in a hole like this. The Dunmer snickered and cooed, "They're coming for you, Nord. You're going to _die_." She responded with a glare, but grew more worried as the quartet stopped in front of her cell. The woman looked extremely angry and she passed a glare back at one of the two guards flanking her sides, a Redguard.

"Baurus! What's this prisoner doing in here?!" she snapped.

"The usual mix-up at the watch, it's--" he stuttered, but fell short from another glare back at him.

"It doesn't matter whose _fault_ it is, Baurus, just get the damned gate open!"

"Yes'sir." The Redguard, Baurus, fumbled for a moment with the keys. "Today, Baurus," the woman muttered, irritated. A moment later, and the bolt slid home, the gate opened with a loud squeak which hurt Nhiilaa's ears. Her hopes of premature escape were dashed as the gate was slammed shut behind the other guard, a quiet Imperial, with a sickening clunk.

"You… I've seen you," a voice interrupted her plot of escape. It was the Emperor Uriel Septim VII. Panic blossomed in the pit of her stomach as she managed an awkward curtsey. Suddenly she couldn't control her mouth.

"With all do respect, your Grace, but perhaps it's because I've fought in the Arena?" she mumbled to her feet, hoping that she wouldn't be heard. Apparently she wasn't, because he just continued, "Then the gods were right, this is the day." Was it just her, or did the Emperor sound… sad? She risked interrupting him, "Sire… what's going on?" The old man smiled at her wearily.

"Assassins have killed my three sons, and I'm afraid I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the City, and out escape route seems to be right through your cell. Perhaps the Nine have placed you here on purpose. Either way, today we both walk the path which has been laid down for us." She was about to ask what the hell he meant when the Breton guard pressed a brick on the wall into the brickwork, and to her surprise, a passageway to the sub-terrain appeared. 'Well _that's_ convenient,' she thought with a smirk. She allowed for the rest of the company to enter the tunnel first and quickly followed at Baurus' heels, to his extreme annoyance. The last thing that they needed on this mission was some snotty, probably teenaged, _prat_ following them around. That was practically begging to be assassinated, in his book.

They company walked in silence, the only sounds came from the heavy clunk of the guards' boots and the muffled footsteps of Nhiilaa's sandals and the Emperor's slippers. Every time Nhiilaa attempted to ask a question, the Imperial guard would through an angry glare back at her, so she'd just given up talking.

A scraping of metal caught her attention. It sounded like… several people shuffling about in heavy armor, but it wasn't the sound of the armor that she'd become accustomed to. "I—" she started to say that she heard someone coming, but was immediately cut off by Glenroy's stare. Involuntarily, her cheeks puffed out in irritation as she placed her hands on her hips.

"I don't like the sound of that," Baurus muttered in the captain's ear. She nodded in agreement but said, "We have to keep moving. Stay on your toes, men." Nhiilaa noted that she was excluded from the warning and fell back even more. The Breton woman drew her blade, a fine katana, from her belt and carried on cautiously. Without warning, the metal scraping drew closer, and several people in daedric armor materialized in a puff of red smoke in a passageway near the ceiling. The assassins dropped down and began their assault. The Breton woman went down first as a mace collided with her exposed face, and she hit a column with a sickening thud and fell to the ground. "The captain's down! Prisoner, protect the Emperor!" Baurus, or was it Glenroy, shouted. Instinctively, Nhiilaa rushed forward and snatched up the fallen captain's sword. The blade was lighter than her own blade, Arpenalatta, and that hindered her swings for a moment before she became familiar with this lighter sword. One assassin fell to her blade; the other two were killed by Glenroy and Baurus.

Dirt settled before anyone spoke. "It's over, sir," Baurus called to the Emperor, who had stayed back from the fray away in the corridor.

"And what of Captain Renault?" his Highness asked, concern in his voice.

"She's… she's dead, sire." Glenroy stepped forward. "In any case, we have to keep moving. I'll take point." Another key was produced, and Baurus unlocked a heavy iron gate. Nhiilaa moved to follow them as they stepped through, but Glenroy pushed her out of the way and locked the gate behind them. "You stay here. You're a liability right now," he sneered.

"Oh _thanks_," she muttered to herself as the door behind the gate slammed shut behind them. Hopelessly, she took a good look around the room, which appeared to be a dead end. Her only option, it seemed, was to go back to her cell and wait for the end of her sentence. That seemed like a terrible idea, actually. Surely one of the guards had noticed that Dreth was yelling something about the stupid burly Nord getting out and how it was so unfair that he had to stay here. Just another example of Dunmeri prejudice. Her sentence would be increased to something more like a month for attempting to escape from prison, Dreth would taunt her for her attempts, and worst of all her father would probably find out and come to the City just to kill her. Things went from bad to worse as she heard scratching behind her back. Her face paled as she turned around and saw a pair of particularly filthy rats attempted to burrow through a crumbling wall.

"Oh of _course_ there are rats. Filthy, disease ridden rats. There's always rats!" she cried, and a second later the rats burst through the wall and rushed to her. Of course they wanted to eat her. With a scream, she swung her sword and caught the first one in the side. It fell to the ground dead, but the other rat still persevered in its charge. Again, she swung her sword, and this time buried the blade in the rat's belly.

--

_There were only two things that Nhiilaa really feared: goblins and rats. Not zombies. She'd feared goblins ever since she was a child in Skyrim and her mother would threaten her with tales of how children would get snatched up by goblins if they disobeyed their mothers, and ever since Azzan and her dear cousin had locked her in that crazy Dunmer's basement she panicked every time she was near a rat. Whenever she begged Ingar to take her with him on one of his expeditions into some ruin somewhere, he would insist that there were child-eating zombies and that he didn't want to get eaten. Ingar had just told her that for the umpteenth time before he'd left and Nhiilaa was rather angry. With a scowl embedded onto her face, she followed her mother around the house and complained._

_"I'm not afraid of any stinkin' zombies. They're just corpses. I'd hit 'em with a flash of my knife and BAM! They'd fall over dead!" she whined, mock-stabbing Hjotra's legs as if they were a pair of zombies. Hjotra sighed in frustration; it'd been cute the first time Nhiilaa had done it, but it was getting old, and she was getting in the way. More than once Hjotra had almost spilled a pot of hot water on the girl's head because she'd gotten underfoot. In trying to protect her daughter, Hjotra dove for the pot and accidentally burned her fingers. Now her hands were covered in bandages so that the burns wouldn't get infected._

_"Enough, Nhiilaa. Zombies are more dangerous than you think," her mother had told her._

_"No! Momma, I could take 'em! Really, I could!" she jeered as she hopped around. One of Hjotra's feet had gotten caught on the child, and she'd fallen to her knees, almost breaking a ceramic urn that Ingar had brought from Skyrim containing his mother's ashes. "Nhiilaa!" she chastised as she rose to her feet. "You think zombies aren't so scary? Let's test that!" And with that, her mother cast a spell of conjuration, and a red and yellow puff of smoke materialized into the form of one of the undead. It stank to high heaven and bits of its flesh sprinkled to the floor with every movement it took. Nhiilaa let out a high pitched scream as she ran outside into the daylight. The undead cocked its head to the side in confusion as it let out a gurgle from its throat. A moment later and it disappeared the same way it had appeared. Hjotra stood at the doorway and hugged her daughter as Nhiilaa tackled her and hid in the folds of her skirt from the now-gone zombie._

_"Now do you see why you can't go with Papa?" Hjotra asked. A fervent nod followed along with panicked whimpering. Now the poor girl feared three things: goblins, rats, and zombies._

_--_

Especially zombies. Of course there had to be a zombie. What good was a creepy tunnel without a zombie surrounded by rats? Now she understood why there were so many damn skeletons around: because the _zombie_ went and killed them all. Probably ate their innards with its grubby teeth and groaned in undead-happiness. And of course, she did the most heroic thing she could think of.

She hid in an alcove and let the zombie and the rats kill each other. The zombie was, obviously, winning. If she hadn't been petrified in fear, she probably would have entered the fray and hit the zombie while it was distracted, but she _was_ petrified in fear, clutching onto the shoddy bow she'd found a while back for dear life. The sounds of battle fell silent and were instead replaced by the heavy footsteps of the undead roaming toward her hiding place. 'Please don't let it find me, please don't let it find me, please don't let it find me,' she pleaded to whichever one of the Nordic gods were listening. Apparently, they heard her, because the zombie just plodded on its course and ignored her.

Her wits found her then, and she pulled a rusty arrow from the quiver she'd found with the bow. She _really_ didn't want this damn thing following her around while she tried to find her way out. Killing it was her only option. Fear gripped her hands and caused them to shake as she knocked the arrow. Only recently had she taken up archery as a pastime, and her aim was actually rather terrible. Prayers for luck filled her head as she pulled the string back past her ear, and she aimed for the nape of its neck. As she loosed the arrow, she slammed her eyelids shut. A cry… well, more of a moan, of pain caused her to open her eyes. The zombie lay dead on the ground at her feet, its limbs still twitching with whatever foul magicks had brought it to life in the first place. She shuddered as she ran from the corpse, tears of panic stinging at her eyes.

--

Finally, she emerged from the caverns. She was a bit bruised, but other than that, no worse for wear physically. Mentally, that was another story, what with the zombie and the goblins. Oh, and the pit _filled _with rats. 'Who the hell keeps a pit full of rats?!' she thought angrily, shaking at the thought of her almost falling into it after she'd been shoved by a goblin.

It was the clashing of metals that attracted her attention from the rats to where she was going. She came to a ledge which provided a bird's eye view to the unfurling battle below. Apparently, despite the fact that they had left her by herself for fear that _she_ would be the one to attract the assassins, the red robed assailants had still found them. 'Fancy that,' was all she could think of as she watched the two guards dispatch the would-be murderers of the Emperor. As she closed the gap, she could make out snippets of their conversation, "—should stay for help!" Glenroy's voice seemed a bit… panicked. "Hell, what makes you think help will arrive!" Baurus', on the other hand, was just flustered.

Nhiilaa let out a screech as she fell from the ledge. She'd _attempted_ to climb down, but the shoddy iron gloves she had found decided to break midway, causing her to land harshly on her bottom. Metal greaves were not the most comfortable thing to fall onto, especially on a bunch of stones.

"Damn it all! It's her! There's no way she could have gotten out, she must be working with them! Kill her, Baurus," Glenroy snapped as they saw that it was her who'd fallen. Fear gripped her, and the thought crossed her mind that she'd really rather be sitting in the pit with rats and zombies than be here right now. A clear, ordering voice quelled her fears in an instant.

"No… she is not one of them. She must help us." The two guards cleared the way for the Emperor as he walked toward her. To her shock, he extended a hand out to her to help her to her feet, and she took it. Her armor squeaked as she stood, and she frowned at it. "They don't understand why I trust you. They've not seen what I have… Listen, you know the Nine?" Her heart fell. As a child, chapel priests in Bruma had chastised her family for their 'heathen gods', and in Anvil children of dutiful chapel goers were oft forbidden from associating with the family. Those families never really stayed in Anvil long, but prejudice was prejudice.

"Sire… your gods are not my own. I'm afraid that you've lost me before you've began."

"That doesn't matter now, child. You may not believe in the Divines, but they believe in you. And they have a plan. Today, we will walk the path that they've set for us, whether you believe it or not. You will come with us for a while," She sighed; at least he wasn't forbidding his dead children from fraternizing with her. "Here, child, lend an old man your arm," he motioned to his side, and immediately she went to him and held out her arm for him to rest on. He took it and continued talking, "I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the heavens. The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars very well, and have watched them for many years. I wonder...which sign marked your birth?" It was a question that she _should_ have known very well, because her mother was interested in that sort of thing. Right now, though, her mind was drawing a blank as she tried to remember her star charts.

"… The Steed… I believe," she muttered as confidently as she could. The Emperor chuckled as her lack of knowing and said, "That sounds about right, child. What is your name, if I may?" His courtesy was actually rather unnerving to her. If she was in his place, she would have been swearing up a storm and shaming her ancestors by it. Instead of pointing this out, however, she managed to force out her speech, "Nhiilaa Ijorta, sire."

"Your accent… you are not from Cyrodiil, are you, Nhiilaa?"

"Not originally… I was born in Skyrim, but I've lived in Cyrodiil a good portion of my life. Sire, if I may… you said earlier that you've seen me in a dream. What… what was it of?" The old man's eyes stared off into the distance as he spoke, "I saw my death, child. Men know that they are going to die, but they don't know when. In this, I am blessed to know the hour." Sweat formed on her brow from the torchlight.

"Sire… if I may, where are we going?" To her surprise, Emperor Uriel stopped in his tracks and looked at her squarely in the eyes.

"I go now to my grave, dear child. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me."


	2. Chapter 2

After the Emperor said that he was about to die, the quartet began their walk again in silence. There was nothing really to say after that except for 'lovely day to take a stroll, don't you think' and a couple 'indubitablies' thrown in there for good measure. But, since it was indeed _not _a good day to die, it would have been rather inappropriate for anyone to say this. In fact, it could have been construed that it was a _bad_ day to die considering that the company was stuck in something that quite resembled a crypt without much of an escape, if any at all. Whoever had designed this escape method was bound and determined to make escape _not _probable and was most likely a blithering idiot.

Unfortunately, Baurus informed her that it was the _only_ escape route. 'Leave it to the guard to not have a back-up route,' she thought grimly. 'Leave it to the bloody guard to take the most imbecilic route that they can think of. Why not just package the Emperor up in a lovely gift box and hand him to the assassins saying, "Oh lovely day we're having, here, take our Emperor, it's not like we need him anyway." Idiots, the lot of them.'

Baurus had the same view of her. The twit had taken Captain Renault's sword and was fighting with it, she'd refused to carry the torch and instead cast illumination spells, and watch rather _twitchy_. Her eyes would probably fall out of her head from some much darting around, but that was another story. Every few minutes she'd say something about how she heard something and had become increasingly persistent with her claims. Frankly, Baurus thought she was insane; after all, she was in prison. Who knows how long the prat had been there and what it did to her mind. Her brains were probably addled enough from having to deal with that fetcher Dreth all day.

"Stop. I don't like this," Glenroy suddenly murmured something about how he'll take a look. There he went, and the twit girl was twitching again and whispering how she could hear people talking. Well, he could hear it too, but there wasn't anything he could do about it from right here.

"It's clear!" Glenroy's voice rang out a little too loud in the open chamber. The Blade disappeared behind another column as the rest of the group attempted to walk toward him as quietly as they could. Baurus stopped at the gate, there was something oddly wrong about this. He tried opening the gate, but to no avail. With a worried look, he glanced down at the middle of the bars: a thin metal pole had barred it from the opposite side.

"Damn it all, Glenroy! I thought you said it was safe," he hissed. Whatever the reply, it was drowned out by the familiar scraping of metal boots.

"They're behind us!" the girl whispered, drawing Renault's weapon. 'Something like this would never have happened to Captain Renault.' Baurus' heart sank, but his face portrayed a look of infuriating rage. "Prisoner, get the Emperor to safety. We'll deal with the assassins," he snarled at her as he pushed her, Emperor in tow, toward a side passage.

Nhiilaa looked around the chamber. It had no doors to escape from in a flash besides the way they came, and a whole lot of good that would do her if an assassin was _blocking_ the way out. In essence, this was a dead end. Suddenly Emperor Uriel turned to her, a strangely calm look betraying the urgency in his voice.

"I can go no further, child. You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his Mortal Servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings! Take the Amulet to Jauffre; tell him to find my son," he said as he shoved the Amulet into her hands. "Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

"Sire, don't pan—" she stuttered, interrupted by the sound of stones shifting. In a blur of movement, she jammed the Amulet into her pocket, heat radiating from the stone, and prepared for battle. A red-armored figure stepped from the shadows, a twisted mace in its hand. Before she could move, before she could do anything, the assassin lunged forward and swung its weapon, the metal contacting the royal skull with a sickening sound that resounded in the cavern.

_Thud._

And with that, the Emperor fell to the ground in a crumbled heap, blood pooling from where the back of his skull used to be. Nhiilaa could vaguely hear Baurus screaming in the background at her, but her own blood was pulsing in her ears, cutting him off mid-sentence.

The world turned shades of grey, and she let out her own shout of anger. Captain Renault's katana was no Arpenalatta, but it would have to do as she swung it through the air at the assassin, who apparently hadn't seen her before. He was frozen as she brought the sword in contact with his neck, a familiar feeling surging through her veins, severing the head in one clean swipe. For a moment, the assassin didn't realize he was dead until his body fell to the ground, head rolling on the floor. The daedric armor disappears in a puff of red smoke, as did the mace, leaving nothing but a pathetic corpse garbed in a red robe and hood.

Minutes passed, and she regained her senses to see Baurus shaking her and screaming, "Where is the Amulet, you damned twit?! Where has it gone?" Her brow furrowed and she managed to shake herself back into awareness. "The Emperor gave it to me." The Redguard's face relaxed a bit, only to be replaced by a look of frustration.

"To you? Did he say why?"

"I have to take it to someone named Jauffre. You know him?"

"To Jauffre? Why him?" Nhiilaa sighed. A stern look crossed her face and she spoke her next words with a careful precision, "There's another son."

"No… there can't be. Then again, Jauffre would know. He's the grandmaster of the Blades, posing as a monk up at Weynon Priory."

"Well that's all fine and dandy, but if you haven't noticed, we're kind of stuck here… Where's Glenroy?"

"Glenroy's dead. You and I are all that's left, girl. And there's always the sewers. We were trying to get to them before we got cut off. Now that one of the assassins opened the wall, you can go through them." Her skin turned a few shades paler. "There are rats and goblins, but nothing you can't handle, I suppose." A few more shades paler. "You all right? You look like you're going to pass out." She managed a feeble nod. "Anyway, you'll need this key to get there. I'll guard the Emperor's body until we can get it out of here." A key was forced into her hand, and she blinked a few times unresponsively.

Baurus sighed. Rookies. "Now would be a good time to go," he growled. No response. In Nhiilaa's mind, she was picturing being eaten alive by rats and goblins and zombies. A loud snap jolted out of her daydream and she nodded fervently. "Sewers, gotcha," she stuttered as she looked down at her hands. The katana now was in Baurus' hands. "Thanks for finding Renault's blade, by the way." 'Great,' she internally grumbled. 'Now all I have is this stupid bow.' She gave Baurus a wave as she stepped through the archway and disappeared around the corner.

--

Sewers. Nhiilaa _hated_ sewers, almost as much as she hated rats and goblins and zombies and that kind of ilk. Everything from the dirt and the grim to the absolutely horrid _stench_ made her crinkle her nose and shudder in disgust. Fortunately enough, she'd only had to spend about an hour in the reaches of the Imperial Sewers. It could have been worse. At least the sewers had been mercifully free of the undead, and she'd only had to deal with a few rats and goblins before she was once again breathing in the fresh air of Tamriel.

It seemed like ages since she'd last have a breath of fresh air, despite that it had only been yesterday that she'd been incarcerated. White Gold Tower loomed over her and blotted out the sun, dousing her in chilling shade and causing her to shiver a bit. First thing was first: she had to go and fetch her belongings from Luther Broad's Boarding House, where she'd been staying. Ever since her retirement from the Arena, Ysabel was… less than friendly. She hadn't seen Owyn, who'd become like an older brother to her, at all in the two years since she'd left the circuit. The thought saddened her, but there was really nothing that she could have done. Her father would have killed her if she went back into the Arena, especially with her "scar still hindering her." It didn't, but Ingar had become even more worrisome; the thought of losing her filled him with dread.

Perhaps she would pay a visit to Owyn before she left for the Priory. After all, it's not like Luther's was that far from the Arena. She cast the idea out of her head; delivering the Amulet was of far greater importance than visiting an old friend. As she approached the gates, she noticed that her wrist irons were still clapped on tightly. Quickly, she hid her wrists beneath her sleeves as the guards opened the gates, though they stared at her skeptically. Soon thereafter she realized why as she stared at her reflection in the looking glass at her room at the Boarding House: her face was dirty from all of the grime of her cell and the sewers, her hair was in a disarray, sackcloth clothing tattered and torn, and small cuts marred her features a bit. She quickly washed her face and hair in the basin as best she could before changing into whatever she found in her pack.

Arpenalatta still lay in its sheath on top of her bed, she saw. As soon as she was fully dressed, she buckled her beloved blade, a gift from her father, to her belt. In contrast with her plaid shirt, short breeches, and rough shoes which in all honesty made her look more like a boy than anything else, Arpenalatta was magnificent and elegant. Often times the mere sheen of the blade made her feel that she was unworthy of wearing such a thing of splendor at her side. But it made Ingar proud to have her wear it, and the sword rarely left her hip.

Without a word, she tucked her suit of ebony armor into her bag. The suit had been another gift, but this was from most of the town of Anvil in congratulations for her defeat of the Gray Prince instead of her father. It was a fine suit of armor; the cuirass had been made by Moravyn while the rest of the suit was made in Morrowind. Of course, she'd gotten the suit about three months after she'd beaten the Prince, and she'd been in Skyrim when the shipment arrived at her aunt's house in Falkreath, so she couldn't properly thank everyone. Once she'd gotten back though, her father threw a grand feast in the town's honor. It'd been a marvelous event, in all actuality. There'd just been one thing missing.

The sight of her steed shook off her grim mood. He hadn't been eaten, which was always a good thing, considering what the orc had done to her old horse. Morihaus snorted as she stopped at his side, one that said something short of, 'Where the hell have you been, you ninny? I've been sitting out here with all these insufferable, oat-smacking pricks that _whinny_ every two seconds—' and so on. Nhiilaa smiled at her horse and patted his mane as she buckled her bag to his saddle. He shook his mane as she climbed onto his back, white fur reflecting the sun off a bit and let out another snort, this one to the tune of, 'If you think I'm jumping over that gate with your damn armor on my back, you've another thing coming.' Morihaus could be rather creative with his snorts when he wanted.

The old gate creaked as the stable-hand opened it for her. A quick nudge of her heels into his sides, and Morihaus galloped out of the gate, nearly knocking over the stable-hand in the process. Fortunately enough, it seemed that her horse was in a mood to be a show-off. That was good; he was most likely going to be willing to gallop the entire way to the Priory just to show up anyway Black Horse Courier rider on his way.

She quickly checked her pocket, the now familiar warmth of the Amulet of Kings rest quaintly above her hip. For a second, she thought that she had accidentally left it back at the boarding house. _That_ would have been an adventure. '_Hmm well yes, I _did_ have the Amulet, but it's seems that I've forgotten it back in an inn where there are tons of crooks and swindlers who'd more likely sell the thing than actually turn it into the Legion._' This Jauffre person might've killed her.

--

_Nhiilaa had been avoiding going home all day, for a particularly good reason. She was certain that Hjotra would be waiting for her, arms crossed in her particular style, sitting on the chair that was placed right next to the door. Oh yes, Hjotra would be furious._

_But now it was growing dark, Ingar was sure to be home by now, and if she didn't get home soon, she would have to sleep out on the porch. As furious as her mother would be, it would have been far worse to upset her even more by not going home at all. She grimaced as she pushed open the back door to the house and prayed to Ysmir that her mother would be in the chair; at least she would have stood a chance sneaking in from the kitchen up to her bedroom. Hjotra would most likely be preoccupied with a book of old Alyeid torture methods in search of one to use on her daughter once she found her. Her footsteps muffled in sync with the crackling of the fire as she attempted to creep up the stairs._

_Luck was not on her side._

_"Nhiilaa Ijorta," her mother's voice rang out clearly amidst the sounds of the popping flame. "What in the name of Shor do you think you're doing?" She stopped dead in her tracks and turned; Hjotra loomed over her angrily, brown hair thrown back in a messy bun, giving her a strangely evil halo. The girl was about to answer when her mother immediately cupped her over the ear._

_Nhiilaa winced in pain as her mother grasped her by the wrist and dragged her up the stairs and into her study. Angrily, Hjotra pointed to a broken display case, the contents of which were now laid delicately on the desk. "Well?" she demanded, pushing Nhiilaa toward the shards of glass. A heavy sigh came from the doorway and Ingar entered the room, heavy boots making loud thuds on the floor._

_"Look what your daughter did, Ingar!" her mother hissed. Wearily he placed a hand to his forehead and muttered, "I'll handle it, dear. Go calm down."_

_"Calm down? Calm down?!" she was practically yelling now. Nhiilaa shirked off into a corner of the room to wade out the argument. "She nearly broke a very rare artifact, Ingar! Not to mention that case was extremely expensive! And there's glass all over the floor! Someone could cut themselves and get—" Hjotra bit her lip in order to keep from crying. Silently, Ingar took one of his wife's delicate hands in his own rough, callused hands and kissed it gently. He gave her a very stern, yet kind look. "Go calm down. For me?" he asked with extreme gentleness. Tears spilled over the rims of Hjotra's eyes as she nodded and went downstairs to prepare dinner._

_"D-does Momma hate me, Papa?" stammered Nhiilaa. Her own tears clung to her cheeks. Ingar shook his head tiredly. "No, no she doesn't. What the hell were you thinking, Ijorta?!" he snapped. She receded into her corner even further; her father had only yelled at her three times before, and it was one of the scariest things the poor nine-year-old had ever experienced. Knowing that she'd disappointed her father filled her with more dread than the zombie that her mother had summoned one day to teach her a lesson had. All she could manage to whimper was how it was an accident followed by her repetition of 'please don't hate me'._

_Thoughts of her being fed to Arvena Thelas' rats or having to go live with smelly Uncle Newheim ran through her head up until her father took her in his arms and wrapped her tightly in a hug. "You could have been hurt, for gods' sake, or you could have broken your mother's extremely expensive artifact. That thing could be dangerous for all we know!" his voice resounded in her ears. Suddenly her fear was filled with anger._

_"All she cares about are those stupid old things. It's not like they're useful!" she cried as she pushed her father away and wrapped her arms around her knees. Ingar glared at her sternly._

_"That's not true, Ijorta. Your mother cares about you very much. She doesn't want her only child getting hurt from one of her hobbies, I'll have you know. Now get that silly idea out of your head and go to bed. We'll deal with this in the morning."_

_"… Yes sir," she grumbled as she marched into her room. Tears ran down her cheeks as she closed her eyes and fell asleep. A light appeared underneath the crack of her door, and a moment later it was opened. Her mother stood there, hair now fixed into a single plait down her back and a candle in hand. She crossed the room silently and sat the candle down on the table as she knelt down. With one hand, she brushed the hair away from Nhiilaa's face gingerly. Hjotra placed a kiss on her daughter's forehead before standing and taking a moment to tuck her in. _

_--_

It was midday when Nhiilaa and Morihaus arrived at the Priory. An ancient Dunmer with a receding hairline approached her almost instantly, scaring her a bit as she dismounted. "May I help you?" he asked politely.

"Ah, yes, I'm looking for Brother Jauffre. Would you happen to know where he is?"

"He'd be in either the main house or the chapel. Shall I take your horse to our stable?" If horses could make faces, Nhiilaa couldn't help but think that Morihaus would have made one at this point.

"That would be lovely, thank you." She handed the reigns to the Dunmer and dashed to the house, Amulet bouncing against her hip. As she opened the door, she ran into a rather stern looking monk. "Excuse me," she mumbled. "I'm looking for Brother Jauffre, is he in?"

"He's upstairs. Go on up," the monk grumbled, and he let her pass. The stairs squeaked as she ascended, notifying whoever was at the top of her presence. An old Imperial man sat at a desk nestled under the window, reading a book without great interest. "Are you Brother Jauffre?" she gasped, winded from her mad dash up the stairs.

"Yes… who're you?"

"Nhiilaa Ijorta. I've brought you the Amulet of Kings."

"This cannot be. Unless—By the Nine," he breathed as she took the Amulet from her pocket and placed it in the old man's hands. Its resting place now felt oddly cool. "You've got some explaining to do, girl. Now."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: So, if you're confused about the names in this one, Ijorta is Nhiilaa's 'Skyrim' name, the name her father picked, thus the name he calls her. Nhiilaa Ijorta. Her full name is Nhiilaa Ijorta. Hjotra is her mother._

"And that's about when the Emperor spouted off something about 'closing the jaws of Oblivion' and how he had another son as he shoved the Amulet into my hands. Then erm… then an assassin came out from this alcove and… well you know the rest," Nhiilaa murmured in a small voice. It would have been rather inappropriate to say, 'Well then a mace careened with the back of his head and bits of brain chunks flew everywhere' and she didn't think that Jauffre would have appreciated it if she had. One must respect their dead Emperors, after all, even if she did think he was nuttier than that one Bosmer fellow back at Skingrad, what with his prophetic dreams and such. "What's going to happen if a new emperor's not crowned? What did he mean by 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion'?"

"After each emperor dies, the Dragonfires have to be relit by his successor. It is an ancient right that was instilled by Saint Alessia herself after receiving the Amulet of Kings from the gods. There may be some connection with the daedric plane of Oblivion and the Dragonfires, but I'm not entirely sure what."

"Oh, well, that's _pleasant_." Daedra. Wonderful, just what she wanted to deal with. "I didn't know the Emperor had another son."

"Ah well, back when I was a Blade, the Emperor called me into his chambers one night, a baby boy in his arms .I didn't ask, but I knew he was his son. His name is Martin, and he's a priest at the temple of Akatosh up in Kvatch," the old man explained. "He doesn't know that he's Uriel's son, however. I recommend that you break that to him lightly." A suspicious look appeared on Nhiilaa's face.

"You make it sound like I'm going to go get him."

"Aren't you?" Mischief played in the monk's eyes, twinkling with a certain youth.

"Look, I brought you the Amulet. I'm not doing anyone anymore favors. Handle it on your own," murmured the Nord. She felt a twang in her heart, Agronak's face crossing her memory for a moment, and the look in his eye when she told him about his lineage. That wasn't something she wanted to go through again. To rip another person's life apart was the last thing she wanted to do.

Jauffre stood and grasped her tightly by the shoulders. His sternest look focused on her eyes, the blue irises unfocused with slight tears forming. "This is a matter of up most importance, Nhiilaa. I'm far too old to be gallivanting across Tamriel on horseback and chasing after illegitimate heirs. The Emperor gave _you_ the Amulet for a reason. You were chosen for this task specifically." She shook off his hands at once.

"Listen, I'm not going, and that's that! I'm not going to destroy another person's life by telling them that everything they've known is a farce! It's not going to happen, Jauffre. I don't care if your 'gods' want me to go or not, or if they chose me or whatever you want me to believe. I go my own path," she spat angrily. The old man smiled knowingly, which caused her to cross her arms indignantly.

"Tamriel needs an emperor. All you have to do is ride there and bring him back here. I'm not asking you to save the entire country, just ride down and fetch a priest. You don't even have to tell him why he's being summoned up here," he said. The Nord sighed and relaxed her shoulders.

"Fine, I'll do it. But I'm not going to be very happy about it, and I'm _not_ going to tell him anything pertaining to the Emperor," she grumbled as she turned away from Jauffre and walked down the stairs. The monk who had gotten in her way stared at her as she went to open the door, and in an effort to be somewhat useful said, "You can take my horse, if you need one." She smiled and refused politely and stepped out into the sunlight.

For once, Morihaus waited quietly for her as the Dunmer pulled him from the stable. She mounted silently, bags shifting slightly as she settled into the saddle. Instead of his formerly quick pace, he set off at a trot immediately as if he knew the course already, as if he knew what was about to happen. He wasn't very happy about it, either.

--

_"A bond between rider and horse is a special thing, Ijorta," Ingar explained to his five-year-old daughter. His wife looked on at the pair and laughed gently._

_"You're going to teach a _five-year-old_ to ride a horse?" she asked with merriment in her voice. The young girl looked at her horse, a tiny pony that actually belonged to Ingar's sister. The horse was rather nervous, and a bit twitchy for a noble steed, and it seemed to be glaring at the blonde-haired whelp._

_"I was not much older than she is when I learned to ride!" Ingar protested as he lifted his daughter into the saddle and handed her the reigns. "Now, Ijorta, try and make the horse go forward. Just nudge him with your heels a bit, but not to hard or he'll run off. I'll be right next to you." As he said this, he grasped the remaining slack of the reigns to ensure that the horse didn't in fact run off. Nervously, she experimented tapping the pony with her heels. In response, the horse set off at a slow walk. She let out a cry and grasped onto the horse's neck in fear of falling out of the saddle. Hjotra's giggles went to a scream of terror as her steed panicked at the sound of her scream and began to rear. The girl went flying out of the saddle and into the snowy bank._

_With a cry of panic, Hjotra ran to her daughter and scooped her out of the snow as Ingar tried to calm down the pony. Nhiilaa cried as Hjotra hugged her tightly and asked her if she was alright repeatedly. Silence fell as everyone was calmed and snowflakes began to fall. Suddenly Nhiilaa lifted her head and broke free from her mother's grasp. Without a word, she approached the horse confidently and looked it in the eye._

_"Bad horsie!" she said to the pony and walked around to the side of the horse. She lifted her arms and waved them about a bit in expectation of being lifted up. Ingar looked at his wife, shrugged his shoulders, and hoisted her up into the saddle. The horse shifted a bit in surprise, and immediately the girl spurred the horse into a trot and rode in a circle._

_After an hour of riding alongside her father as practice, she dismounted. Ingar lifted her onto his shoulders as the three of them began to walk back to the house, horse in tow._

_"How did you like it, Nhiilaa?" Hjotra asked. The child looked down at her mother from her perch and said simply, "The horsie doesn't like me."_

_--_

Twilight was just about to die off as Nhiilaa and Morihaus arrived at Kvatch. The air smelled of fire and brimstone, causing her to sneeze violently as the horse turned to begin the ascent to the city on the hill. Both human and beast turned their eyes to the sky and saw the smoke pluming high into the night.

"Something's not right here," muttered the human as she spurred her steed into a gallop towards the city, almost crashing into an Altmer attempting to run down the road.

"Get out while you still can!" he screamed. Morihaus halted and reared, nearly throwing Nhiilaa of his back. The Altmer stopped in his mad run for fear of her falling onto him.

"What the hell is going on?!" she asked once she had regained balance.

"By the gods, you don't know, do you? Daedra poured into the city during the night and burned it to the ground! Only a handful of us escaped the city. They say that a group is holed up in the chapel, but we can't get back into the city. A huge, flaming gate stands in the way." Fear shadowed her face.

"Is the priest named Martin with the survivors?" Inside she prayed, 'By Ysmir, please let him be with them, please let him be with them.'

"I don't know, He's not up at the camp if that's what you mean. I've no time to help you look, because I'm getting the hell out of here!" the Altmer yelled as he resumed his flee. As she watched the man run off towards the road, she couldn't help but think, 'This is going to be _pleasant_, isn't it?' In spite of her wishes, Morihaus galloped toward the campsite that the Altmer had mentioned. An orc woman stopped them before he could turn to ascend the hill.

"Ma'am, I really don't think you should be takin' your horse up there," the orc woman said with concern.

"What _is_ up there?" The woman's face darkened and she let out a heavy sigh before beginning.

"Late last night, while most everyone was asleep, I heard a kind of a cracking sound. I looked out my window and I saw daedra pouring into the city, and then this… this thing came out of the gate. It looked like some sort of war machine. I got out of the city as fast as I could, but most people ran to the chapel or died, mainly died though. One of the flaming gates is still up. The captain says that they can maintain the road for a while, and he said he'd send someone into that infernal thing… but we haven't heard of anything since." As soon as she finished, a bolt of lightning cracked overhead and split the sky with a flash of light. Nhiilaa asked the woman if she could take care of Morihaus and passed her a small bag of coins as she dismounted. She spared a glance back at the horse, who snorted at her in offense as he turned toward the orc woman in disdain. Immediately, she pulled her armor and shield from their resting places in Morihaus' saddle bags and slipped it on over her clothing and turned to run to the city. A priest lamented to her as she ran past and begged her to listen to his cries. However, she didn't stop to listen to whatever complaint about the gods he had.

The gate was calling to her.

The closer she got to the gate, the louder the sounds of battle rang in her ears, the sounds of blades crashing with something entirely inhuman, sickening, demonic cries of defeat that seared the very essence of the soul. Smoke and ash plumed high into the night from the pair of hellish pillars that formed the gate. Xivilai and clannfear emerged from the portal in a small battalion and the guard rushed from beyond the bulwark to destroy whatever hellion came next. Daedra after daedra fell to the blades of the guard, taking one or two of the remaining guard down with them. As the last blow fell, the guards rushed back to the protection of the bulwark, and a particularly angry looking guard, presumably the captain, rushed toward Nhiilaa.

"What the hell are you doing back here?! Civilians should stay at the camp until help arrives, now get your carcass back there!" yelled the guard over the noise of the inferno.

"I'm here to help!" she pleaded. "Please, what's going on?"

"You think _you_ can help? Bah, whatever, it's your funeral, girl." The guard looked over at the burning city with a forlorn look in his eye. "My home… my goddamned home! Those damn daedra poured out of that gate and destroyed the city. We got some of the remaining survivors to the chapel, but who knows if they're still alive. S'not like we can get to them now, what with that gate in our way."

"Was a man named Martin with them?" Again, more prayers to Ysmir.

"The priest? I think so. But like I said, we can't get to anyone in the city with that gate in our way. Everyone I've sent there… they haven't come out. You don't want to go in there."

"Well it looks like I'll _have _to, doesn't it?" With that, she pulled Arpenalatta from its sheath at her side and shoved on her helmet. The guard scoffed.

"You can't be serious. _You_? Aren't you a little young to be gallivanting into the unknown?" With an annoyed glare, Nhiilaa dashed off toward the gate and disappeared into the flames. Savlian Matius looked on bewilderedly as she ran into the gate and muttered, "There goes another 'hero'."

--

Killing the daedra in itself was not difficult. Slash and stab at a certain point, that being the chest area, and most things die, and daedra were no exception. It was actually getting enough of an edge to be able to kill them that was the trick. If they weren't wearing armor, every time you got near them they'd launch off a fire spell. As a Nord, she had a tolerance for the cold. Flaming spheres of death were another story. This was something that she figured out as soon as she stepped through the gate to face a heavily armor daedra wielding a huge mace in one hand and a shield in the other. The shock of being face to face with something so utterly repulsive had thrown her off center. Surely she would have died if that man hadn't shown up when he did. Imperial, a guard of Kvatch she assumed from the emblem on his armor. He had decapitated the damn thing from behind, just in time too. Any longer and she would have been daedra-fodder.

"Thank the gods!" he cried as he embraced her in a hug. Poor guy was hysterical, and this new realm certainly wasn't doing much to help. Everything was jagged and bloody, hell, even the sky was thick and scarlet, and lighting blazed in the sky like a pulse. "Matius sent you?"

"If Matius is the captain out there, then yes, in a manner of speaking he did. Are there any others here?"

"No… they were taken to the tower, only I escaped. I'd love to stay and help… but I'm getting the hell out of here." Wonderful. She forced a confident look and nodded for him to leave. Envious, she watched him run out back to Cyrodiil. With a heavy heart, she set her gaze back up to the tower, which loomed over her menacingly on a backdrop of a thick, bloody sky. She could recognize a few of the plants, harrada and bloodgrass, as things from her mother's alchemy pantry; she'd accidentally eaten a morsel of harrada root and had awful pains that entire day. The landscape itself was harsh, almost as if just walking around would send a spike flying into a person. The air smelt heavily of volcanic ash and lava, almost searing the insides of her nostrils merely from scent.

"Oh yes, this is going to be pleasant," she grumbled as she dashed towards the tower.


	4. Chapter 4

Lightning pulsed in the sky above like a heart beat; crashing sounds assaulted her ears unmercifully. But at last, she had reached this gods forsaken tower. She'd quickly figured out that this realm was most likely notorious for false entrances and ways to get to places. Almost as quickly as she'd entered was when she had given up following the path in lieu of just straight climbing up the face of the hillside. Once or twice she'd almost been knocked off by a falling boulder or two, and there was that little mishap once she'd gotten to the top. Two or three scamps had surprised her and hit her a few times with a not particularly well aimed fire ball. Now was one of those times that she was truly thankful that her mother had drilled restoration lessons into her mind as a child.

The doors to the tower opened with a heavy scraping sound and slammed shut behind her. For a moment, she was blinded by a torrent of orange flames the reached to the tip of the tower. She stumbled for a moment and her leg hit something metal, knocking her out of her reverie. A quick glance downward told her that if that bar hadn't been there, she would have fallen into the miniature lake of fire. As beneficial as this was, it also notified a rather imposing Xivilai that hadn't noticed her before of her presence. His loud cry erupted in her head, and she pulled out her blade just in time to run it through the chest. It was an accident, of course, but a welcome one. A second longer and… well, she didn't want to think about that.

She took a moment to take a breather and take a better look around the tower. The towering spiral of flame stretched a good one hundred feet into the air and disappeared into the ceiling. On the wall adjacent to her entrance was a door which had been rather difficult to see in the beginning; she'd made three passes before she actually found it. It slid open with a metallic screeching sound to give way to a dark corridor. Nhiilaa murmured a weak illumination spell and walked through to the other side.

--

"_For the love of—Nhiilaa Ijorta you stop that right now," Hjotra hissed at her daughter, who was pulling at her skirts and attempting to wriggle her hand out of her mother's steel grip. "Can't you behave, just this once?" Whatever the response, the woman didn't hear it, because a loud crash tore open the quiet stillness of the early morning. The sound came from the direction of the Mages Guild, where the two were headed._

"_Oh sweet Ysmir," grumbled the woman as she pulled her daughter along and broke into a run. The child whined in protest as she was dragged along behind her mother. _

_The door opened with a loud bang and smoke plumed from the now open entrance. Both mother and daughter coughed and held their sleeves over their noses, but none the less entered the building._

"_Carahil!" Hjotra yelled into the smoke. "Where the devil is everyone?" A Dunmer emerged from the black fog coughing heavily. "Ah, there you are," he said in between coughs._

"_Felen, what the hell is going on here?"_

"_Ah, erm, Quintis decided that Sparky was… a little too in his way. So he erm… well he tried to blow the little bugger up, and he cast one of his 'experimental' spells and it backfired."_

"_Well that figures. Is the imp alright?"_

"_Unfortunately," the Dunmer said, forcing a grin. "Traven and Carahil are in the library putting out the small flames. It's nothing really." Hjotra's face went a bit pale. Nhiilaa tugged on her mother's skirts as she attempted to hide from Felen. Noticing this, he smiled and squatted down and moved to pat her head._

"_Hello there, Nhiilaa," he said cheerfully. To her mother's utter dismay, Nhiilaa attempted to bite his hand. "Stop that," she hissed as she swatted the back of her head. Hjotra cleared her throat. "Anyway, I was just bringing this one to her lesson with Traven, but it looks like I'll have to come back later."_

"_Actually, I'm finished," a voice came from the hall. An older man appeared in the archway, Hannibal Traven, the current head of the Anvil Mages Guild chapter. "Just a small magical fire, nothing that couldn't be handled. Good morning, Hjotra. Is she ready for her lesson?"_

"_Ah, I suppose. She's being rather… uncooperative today, I'm afraid." As she said this, Nhiilaa stuck her tongue out at Traven. He let out a chuckle and bent down to her level._

"_That's quite alright. It won't be the first time I've taught an unwilling pupil. Now since the library is now habitable, how about we have that lesson? I assume you will be doing research, Hjotra?"_

"_Of course." No matter how nice Traven was, Hjotra could never trust an Imperial. It was just one of those things. Nhiilaa clung to her mother's leg as the three made their way to the library. Carahil was busily cleaning up the ashes from Quintis' accident. As soon as they entered, she straightened up and looked with a sullen distaste at the mother and child. "Oh, hello," she sniffed. It was all the greeting that was offered to them._

_An hour passed, and Nhiilaa was absolutely tired of repeating the same illumination spell over and over again. For all his skill and all his kindness, Traven was a strict teacher and a monotonous one._

"_I don't see why I have to repeat this spell so many times. It's not like I'm going to be USING it any time soon," grumbled the child as she waved her hand to trace the pattern of the spell and muttered the incantation for the umpteenth time._

"_And that is exactly the kind of attitude that beggars and layabouts have. Now do it again, but at a greater magnitude," Traven scolded, all humor gone from his voice. With a sigh, she began to cast a stronger illumination spell._

_--_

In contrast to the jagged, imposing metalwork of the rest of the tower, the Sigillum Sanguis was a bit more… horrific. It was far bloodier, the floors and levels were made out of what looked to be stretched out flesh, and with every step instead of a metallic thud, it made a kind of squishing sound. Nhiilaa would have thought it to be some sort of torture room if one poor prisoner hadn't told her otherwise.

'_Get the sigil key from the keeper and go to the Sigillium Sanguis. Take the stone. It's what anchors the gate to Tamriel_,' he had said right before she was attacked by said keeper. It was a pity about the prisoner actually; the sigil keeper knocked her back into a lever, and as she stood she accidentally pulled it. The poor man's screams as he was killed by the keeper still echoed in her head, but his sacrifice had provided her with the advantage to do away with the sigil keeper.

The sanguis itself was almost unbearably hot from the torrent of fire in the center. It was like some sort of hellish nightmare, but the end was near. At the top of the spiral was a black orb, what she presumed was the stone the prisoner had spoken of before his demise. With a sigh, she ascended the staircases quickly and was about to approach the stone when she heard something. The sound of metal boots on the metallic stairs. Panic rising, she looked over the edge of the platform. One… two… three dremora catiffs.

"… Oh bugger," she grumbled as the dremora charged. "I really hope you were right about the stone." And with that, she ignored the fire and ripped the stone from its resting place. Shrieks filled her eardrums as the entire world shook violently, then went white.

Suddenly she was back in Kvatch, stone in one hand, sword in the other, and the gate was no more. She could hear distant cheering vaguely in the background, but didn't really notice it until Matius grasped her by the shoulders firmly and practically yelled in her ear. Something about a good job and how they could save the town now, followed by someone pulling her in the direction of the town gate. Without thinking, she tucked the stone into her bags as her vision fell upon the hordes of daedra in Kvatch.

"Oh dear," she said as the rest of the guard went to attack the daedra, and quickly followed suit. Once those were dispatched, she immediately followed Matius into the chapel. He started talking to some Redguard woman, and she took the opportunity to look for the priest named Martin. Her heavy footsteps echoed around the chamber as she approached the makeshift living area: overturned benches, rough blankets spread, some sort of cold meat and bread on a plate next to candles. It was hardly recognizable as a church now.

Exhausted, she slumped down, back against the center altar and facing the stained glass portrait of Talos. She glared up at it in disdain and removed her armor and shoved it into her bag, thankful that she had just slipped it on over her clothing. Looking for Martin could wait a minute or so as she recuperated. With a heavy sigh, she looked down at her exposed skin: her arms were covered with innumerable cuts and bruises, but none too serious. Ingar would have her hide, though.

A Redguard woman helped her to her feet, and upon request, pointed her in the direction of a weary looking Imperial man, the priest named Martin. Faking confidence, she walked over to him, embarrassed at how loud her footsteps were. A quick tap on the shoulder, and the man turned around with speed.

"You've brought help? We've been trapped here ever since the daedra overran the city," he said, bitterness in his voice. Nervousness suddenly filled her throat. This was the Emperor's _son_. She was speaking with a _prince_ practically.

"Erm, well yes, I suppose. Listen, this is going to sound… really stupid, but you have to come with me. To Weynon Priory that is," she managed to force out through her nerves. The priest looked at her quizzically.

"And why exactly would I do that? I have to—"

"You're Martin, right? The priest?"

"Yes, I'm a priest. Do you need a _priest_? I don't think I'd be much help to you. I'm having trouble understanding the gods right now. If this is part of some… divine plan, then I don't think I want to be a part of it," he remarked bitterly. Nhiilaa rolled her eyes.

"Look, I don't care about _your_ gods and _their_ plan. Really, I don't. But right now we need your help." Desperation filled her eyes as she spoke, but Martin just shook his head grimly.

"If you came to _me_ for help, you're more of a fool than you look. What good is a priest?" All thoughts of panic receded, and in its place anger bubbled.

"I'm just going to ignore the fact that you've insulted me. Though I really didn't want to be the one to tell you this, I suppose you've given me no option. You're the Emperor's son, you twit." A smirk spread across her face as his eyebrows rose in surprise; obviously this had not been the news he'd been expecting.

"Emperor Uriel Septim? You think the _Emperor_ is my father? No… you have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh, and my father was a farmer," he mumbled. Nhiilaa let out a sigh and grasped him by the shoulders.

She looked him straight in the eye as she spoke her next words. "The Emperor sent me to find you." Fire blazed in her eyes, probably from the anger of being insulted, but it was fire none the less.

"You spoke to the Emperor before he died? And he told you to find me?" Confusion soaked his words thoroughly. To his disapproval, she rolled her eyes, all seriousness gone.

"No, I just closed a damn Oblivion gate because I thought it was _fun_ and wanted to screw with some unimportant priest's life even more," said the Nord sarcastically. "Of course I was there when he died! He _walked_ through my cell and everything. Besides, why in the name of Shor would I lie to a priest of _Akatosh_? … Maybe swearing by one of my gods wasn't the best example, but you get my point!" Thought clouded the priest's expression as he turned away from her slightly. A minute or so passed before he spoke again.

"I don't know. It's strange… I think you might be telling the truth. What do you want from me?" His voice was hollow and distant, but she didn't really care about that right now.

"I'm fairly certain I made that clear. Come with me to Weynon Priory and meet with a man named Jauffre. He can explain this far better than I can." Martin turned back to her, a sort of forced determination on his face.

"They say that you closed the Oblivion gate and fought back the daedra. I suppose… Fine, I will go with you."

"Good, because we leave now," she said as she grabbed him by the arm and dashed out of the chapel. Matius looked as if he wanted to ask her something, but didn't have the opportunity to do so. Best let her go at the moment.

The orc woman was waiting with Morihaus' reigns in her hands by the time that the two reached the camp. Guilt filled her heart, so she slipped a few more coins into the woman's hand than she had originally intended. Without a word to Martin, who was rather confused, she mounted the horse and held out her hand to assist him onto the back.

"You've got to be joking," Martin said, eyeing the horse in disgust.

"And just _why_ would I be joking? It's faster than walking, now come on," commanded Nhiilaa. Her shoulders slumped when he didn't even move towards the horse. "Oh what in the world is the matter _this_ time?" His cheeks burned scarlet for a moment, and she could barely hear him muttering into his chest as his head dropped. "What was that?" Martin cleared his throat and began speaking again.

"I said, 'I never really learned to ride a horse,'" he said with fake confidence. To his dismay, the Nord burst out laughing. "Stop that! It's true!" A blush of a deeper red flashed across his face as she calmed down.

"Didn't you say your father was a farmer?" she said as she attempted to suppress more giggles. It was a losing battle.

"I never said I learned to ride. My father was a _poor_ farmer," he grumbled. Jovial attitude thoroughly _murdered_, Nhiilaa re-extended her hand.

"That doesn't matter. My horse won't let you fall, so climb on." This time, she didn't wait for him to move; she just grabbed his arm and forced him up.

"Oh and just how do you know I won't fall?" questioned the priest sarcastically. She returned his attitude with a snide remark of her own, "Because my horse isn't a twit."

It was going to be a long ride, he could see that already.


	5. Chapter 5

Once he had gotten used to it, Martin rather enjoyed riding the horse. Even he had to admit, it was a fairly graceful horse. Morihaus was actually used to carrying heavy weight for long distances; this was a walk in the park to him. Despite the horse's grace, Martin still couldn't look down; it was far too high up. And there was one thing that bothered him, and as they reached the crossroads and were about to turn to head towards Chorrol, he managed to voice it.

"Aren't women supposed to ride side saddle?" he asked quickly. Morihaus stopped abruptly, sending Martin to fall a little ways forward. He recovered his balance to see Nhiilaa glaring at him with a dangerous look.

"_Ladies_ ride side saddle. _I _don't," she hissed as she turned back around. Obviously it was a touchy subject. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that in her regular clothing, she looked an awful lot like a boy from the back, albeit a very tall boy, but a boy none the less. Either way, she was very young, no more than twenty years.

"But I thought—" A quick raise of her hand to silence him interrupted his sentence. Her head turned, and she placed a finger to her lips in an effort to silently communicate. After a moment, he understood why.

There were hoof beats coming straight toward them. Martin looked over her shoulder and saw where the sound was coming from: three or four mounted riders galloping towards them from the road that they were about to take. Immediately, Nhiilaa swore under her breath and turned the horse the opposite direction, towards Anvil, and lightly nudged Morihaus' sides. In response, he began to gallop down that road. Martin let out a rather womanly scream for just an instant before clinging to the Nord's waist for safety.

"You're going the wrong way!" he yelled above the sound of the rushing wind and collective hoof beats.

"I'd rather like to live, if it's all the same!" she returned his yell angrily.

"What if they're from Kvatch? We could help—"

"They are _not_ from Kvatch," she remarked. This time there was no anger in her voice, it was simply a fact. To this, Martin's anger rose in his throat. To dismiss the possibility so quickly… it was ludicrous.

"And just _how _do you know that?" he questioned indignantly.

"None of the Kvatch horses survived. The stables were completely leveled by the gate. And there's no way that four horse riders that escaped the city would be back right now, they'd be off getting help. That, and the fact that they're trying to shoot at us," she yelled as an arrow flew past Martin's head. "You're going to want to hang on. This is about to get a tad dangerous."

"Wait, what!?" he screamed as the horse moved off of the road and into the wilderness. The bandits put their bows away and stirred their own horses to close that gap between the two groups. Without warning, Nhiilaa turned the horse to the side in between a pair of rocks with a small gap, bottlenecking the riders behind her and Martin, but none the less Morihaus kept up his speedy pace and darted to the right of an inn.

"Why aren't we stopping there? Surely they can help us!" Martin shouted. To his dismay, Nhiilaa shook her head and returned, "No, the inside of that inn is practically a maze. They'd take Morihaus and run before we had a chance to return with help." And that was that. The bandits regrouped and forced their steeds to a dangerous speed to catch up with them. Instead of turning back to the road, she pulled the reigns to force Morihaus through another set of rocks and down a hill, and the horse responded accordingly. The landscape slowly shifted; there were far less trees and more rocks and hills than Martin liked. How this was a better cover than the forests near Chorrol was beyond him. He was about to point this out when the Nord shouted, "Duck!" Confused, he looked to the sky, and instead got a face full of tree branches. For a moment, he sputtered until he regained his composure and tightened his grip on Nhiilaa's waist.

The walls of Anvil now came into sight. Nhiilaa risked a glance backwards. To her disappointment, the bandits were still following, though their horses looked as if they were about to collapse. For a moment, she wondered why they were still following, and remembered that Arpenalatta was still buckled to her hip. The sword alone would fetch a pretty penny. Suddenly, she turned the horse to the left, across the road. A small farm came into view, a woman tilling the earth with a ho. Martin almost shouted about the fence that stood between them, but before he could Morihaus jumped over it with ease, crushing a corn plant.

"Sorry Maeva!" Nhiilaa called back as the woman stood.

"Your father'll hear about this, Nhiilaa Ijorta!" the woman yelled as the horse jumped the other side. Morihaus slowed his pace to a trot as they reached the stables. "Ernest! Open the gate!" she called urgently. Immediately, a Redguard man dashed out of the stable house and ran to open the gate for her. As they slowed to a stop, Martin looked back. The bandits were no longer following them, which was good. But now they were in Anvil, which was bad. That, and Morihaus looked tired. This was worse. Martin dismounted first, then Nhiilaa, who led her horse into one of the stables, a bucket of water for him to drink from in hand. As she moved to go and find a bag of oats for Morihaus to feed from, Martin stopped her.

"Why didn't we head to Chorrol? We could've outrun them in the forest!" he cried. Instead of answering him immediately, she pushed past him and continued her search. After a moment, she answered, "Because we couldn't have outrun them in the forest. I don't know Chorrol's forests save for a town and a few farms. I know the Gold Coast, and more importantly, my horse knows the Gold Coast. It would have been far more dangerous to risk running through a forest where I've no idea where there are fallen trees and hidden rocks. Morihaus could have broken a leg tripping on a rock and we would have been killed by the bandits. I took the safer way."

"Yes, but now we're _stuck _here in this—" Abruptly, she stood up and looked the priest in the eye frighteningly.

"Look, if you don't like it, you can _walk_ to Chorrol. Right now, my horse needs tending to, and that's my main concern. Weynon Priory can _wait_ for all I care. It's not like it's going to burn down with everyone in it just because I didn't take the precious heir to Jauffre immediately. Jauffre, by the way, would have my head if he learned that I got you killed because I was taking you to him in a 'quicker way'. Now kindly shut up while I take care of my horse," she hissed before going back to searching for fodder. A small stable hand, a boy of about 7, rushed to her with a bag of oats for the horse. After taking the bag, she turned to the boy, who Martin noted to be a Nord, and whispered to him. A coin was slipped into the boy's hand, and he dashed off into the city.

"Who was that?" Martin asked. It seemed that she knew the boy, even though she had to pay him.

"My cousin's son. Told him to go get my father and then buy himself a sweetroll," she said as she poured the oats into a dry bucket and placed it in front of the horse to eat. Minutes passed in silence, with Martin staring at Nhiilaa and her horse and Nhiilaa grooming the horse using a brush she had taken from the saddlebag, which now lay on the ground. The gate creaked open, and a Nord man rushed out to the stables. Presumably it was her father due the fact that he yelled her name and proceeded to practically smother her in a hug.

"Where in the hell have you been? You didn't send a messenger like you _said_ you were, and then Bormir comes bursting in the house yelling something about how you're home and at the stables and just takes a sweetroll and runs off. What's going on—who the hell is this?" Ingar asked, motioning at Martin with distaste. Wonderful, an overprotective father. Just what he wanted to deal with after being carted about through the Gold Coast by an infuriating girl.

"Papa, please. This is Brother Martin. He's a survivor of what happened at Kvatch," she said, pushing her father toward Martin.

"Don't tell me you were at Kvatch," the man groaned, placing a hand to his forehead in worry. Martin decided to take control of the situation at that point.

"She was there, sir. She closed the Oblivion gate outside of the city and fought back the daedra that were barraging the chapel where a few other survivors and I were trapped," he piped. To his shock, Ingar's face went pale. His face contorted in anger as he slapped the back of his daughter's head roughly.

_"What the hell were you thinking?! Have you learned nothing from those countless hours studying?!"_ he yelled at her in Nordic so that Martin wouldn't understand. Her hands flew up to her head as she rubbed it in pain.

_"I had no choice! It was imperative that I get into the city!" _she yelled back in the same language.

_"And just why is that? What is so important that you risk your life?"_

_"I'll tell you when we get home, I promise." _Ingar's patience was wearing thin.

_"No, Nhiilaa! You'll tell me now!"_ he roared, causing Martin to shirk back a bit next to Morihaus. The horse stared at him blankly. As father and daughter continued to yell at each other, the priest lifted his hand to pat the horse's nose.

_"Papa, if I could, I would. But until we get back to the house, I can't! Please, just trust me on this. I will tell you,"_ she pleaded and gave Ingar her most imploring look. The man sighed and his shoulders slumped.

_"Fine. But the second we get home, you tell me_," he hissed. An uneasy silence fell over the two only to be broken a second later by a shout that came from the direction of the stable. Accidentally kicking over a bucket of water, Nhiilaa dashed to her horse and saw that it was indeed _Martin_ who had shouted. Blood dripped from his hand as he clutched it to his robe.

"What the hell did you do?!" cried Nhiilaa as she stared in horror at his bloody palm.

"What do you mean 'what did I do'?! Your stupid horse bit me!" the priest managed to gasp in pain. He looked up to see he suppress a giggle. "Care to tell me just _what_ you're giggling at?"

"Morihaus doesn't like you," she snickered. "Come on, let's go get that looked at." As she said this, she pulled Martin by the cloth of his robe. Ingar nodded to his daughter in understanding as she dragged the priest behind her. Immediately the man began to tend for the horse in her stead.

"Erm, where are we going?" mumbled Martin, who was trying not to look at his hand.

"Mages Guild. They've better healers than I am. If I heal it, it might still get infected," she said absentmindedly. "Besides, I'm not very welcome up at the chapel." All the color drained from Martin's face as the world 'infected' reached his ears.

"Infected? What?" he gasped as she pushed him through the doors of the guild. An unpleasant looking Altmer woman glowered at them, her face laced with pride and a certain smugness that obviously Nhiilaa didn't care for.

"Oh it's _you_," the Altmer spat. "What do _you _want? I've no time for your ilk—"

"Really Carahil, I'm sure what ever insult you're going to fling at me next is horribly witty and will send my self esteem tumbling down about my feet, but I've no time for it. Is Thaurron in? It's a bit of an emergency," interrupted the Nord angrily as she held up Martin's injured hand. Carahil shot a glare at Nhiilaa but took a look at his wound.

"He's in the dining hall, I believe. If he bleeds on the carpet, I'll have your head, girl!" Without another word, Nhiilaa shoved Martin towards the hall…

And straight into a fluttering imp. The imp squeaked loudly as Martin batted it away in panic with his good hand and it fluttered to the shoulder of a Bosmer sitting at the table with a book in his hand. The Bosmer shooed the imp away absentmindedly and pulled the book closer to his face. At once, Nhiilaa quickly moved to the Bosmer and took the seat next to him.

"I'd hate to interrupt your research, Thaurron, but this is just a tiny little emergency," she said with a twinge of a smile. Thaurron looked up and beamed at her.

"Nhiilaa! It's wonderful to see you again. What's this now?" he asked, noticing Martin for the first time. He glanced down at his bloodied hand and gave the Nord a critical stare. "What did you do? He say something about your age?" To Martin's eternal shame, the Bosmer snickered at him.

"Nah, he went and got himself bit by my horse. Morihaus doesn't like him very much," she giggled in return. Thaurron stood and crossed the room to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of some sort of pinkish fluid.

"What is that?" Martin asked, fear creeping into his voice.

"One of Felen's rather more useful potions. If there's any chance of an infection, this'll be rid of it in a jiff." There was that word again. Color drained from his face once more as the Bosmer uncorked the bottle and poured the foul-smelling liquid onto his hand. A scream tore from his lips involuntarily as the potion wormed its way into the wound and caused fire to pump through his veins. Pain exploded in the back of his head as Nhiilaa slapped him roughly across the skull.

"Stop being a ninny," she snapped. She left it at that.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: ... I totally have a GREAT reason for this being so late... Which um... I'll think of later. But for the moment it's insert really good reason here about saving bby kittens from burning orphanages. Let's throw some shrapnel and kamikaze puppies for good measure here. :D_

Martin held his hand up to the nearest light source in order to examine it. Now that it was firmly bandaged, it no longer pained him to the extent it had. As soon as he made it obvious that he was satisfied, Nhiilaa thanked Thaurron, slipped the Bosmer a few coins when she didn't think that Martin was paying attention, and pushed the priest out the way that they came, shooting a glare at Carahil in the process.

The sun momentarily blinded him as the pair stepped out of the building, but apparently that didn't affect his companion, for the Nord immediately rushed off towards a row of houses none too far from the guild. With a sigh, Martin dashed after her and quickly caught up with her and the pair walked on in silence. A few heads turned as they passed, but was presumably due to the blood adorning the front of Martin's robes. In an effort to cover up the stains, he crossed his arms over his abdomen and kept his head down. It must've looked as if he'd murdered someone, he figured.

Just a moment later, the two reached their destination: a rather nice house to the west of the gate that they'd entered the city from. The door to the house opened with a loud moan and the pair stepped inside, a warm smell of freshly prepared stew of some sort greeting them at the door.

"Nhiilaa? That you?" A voice called from the same direction the aroma came from.

"Yes, Papa. Had to get Brother Martin's hand looked at," she called back as she walked toward both voice and scent, Martin in tow. It led to a dining area, a pot of stew nestled over a welcoming fire. Ingar himself was seated at a dining table, a book in one hand and a pipe in the other. The scent of the pipe-weed mingled with the smell of the stew into a single, warming fragrance. On sight of his child, he snapped the book shut and placed it in front of him on the table. 'The Last King of the Ayleids' read the title as Martin tilted his head to see it. Odd, Ingar didn't really strike him as the sort of man to study ancient history, but apparently he was. The Nord man offered Martin a chair as his daughter had already sat down and was busily chatting to her father, but whether he was really paying attention or not was a mystery.

"Your hand's all healed up then, Brother Martin?" Ingar addressed the priest, interrupting whatever sentence his daughter was in the middle of. Martin nodded in response. "I suppose you'll be staying here and takin' off in the morning?" Another nod. "Well, in that case I'll need more fixings for supper. Nhiilaa, dash down to Lelles' and buy s'more meat and carrots and then the Arms and get a nice bottle of wine." With that, Ingar handed his daughter a small stack of coins. Dutifully, she gave her father a hug and dashed out the front door. An awkward sort of quiet blossomed; the only noise to be heard was the crackling of the fire. That is, until Ingar cleared his throat loudly.

"So… she took you to the Mages Guild to get that healed? You see Thaurron or Felen?" he said.

"Erm… the Bosmer. Thaurron, I believe," mumbled the priest uncomfortably.

"Ah, good man. He's a good healer too," harrumphed the Nord as he picked his book back up and began to read once more. Minutes passed, and Martin shifted uncomfortably where he sat.

"Excuse me, but ah—"

Without looking up from his book, Ingar said, "You want to know how I know the members of the local guild?" Suddenly, he closed the tome gently and set it back down. "I don't exactly _look_ like a mage, now do I?" A smile cracked on the man's face.

"Not really, no," Martin said, embarrassment rising in his throat.

"My wife was a guild mage. Her colleagues often dropped by with notes and to discuss their latest bit of research with her," he said. He leaned back with a sigh. Confusion spread across Martin's face clearly.

"And ah… where is your wife?" Ingar wasn't all that old looking, middle aged at most. Surely Nhiilaa's mother couldn't be—

"Dead." His words rang throughout the room, tone taking on a new edge. "She died in battle in Garlas Malatar. It's a ruin not too far up the coast. My wife, Hjotra, was an Ayleid scholar… She and a team from the Mages Guild went to the ruin to retrieve a few Welkynd Stones to study. From what I've been told, they found this strange orb on a pedestal with some sort of writing. They left the two Alyeid writing experts, that being my wife and a fellow named Quintis, while the others explored the ruins some more. They were ambushed by… something. They ran. My wife and two others died. The three others made it out." A heavy sigh broke from the man's chest as he finished. In his shock, Martin attempted to piece together his next few words, or even his thoughts.

"I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't know," he managed to force out. To his surprise, Ingar flashed an understanding smile, mist clouding his eyes for a moment.

"How would you? My daughter… she doesn't really like to discuss it. I thought it better I tell you now so that you wouldn't ask her later on. Better to not bring it up after all this time, anyway. What's done is done," he said sadly, not fully looking Martin in the eye. "Anyway, I hope that serves as an explanation."

"It would be safe to assume that Nhiilaa has some training as in the arcane arts, right?"

"That is correct. She had her mother's gift, but unfortunately my concentration for it. I attempted it for my wife's sake once and got immediately frustrated with it. She would have made a good mage if she hadn't… Well that's for her to tell you. It's not my place to divulge into that sort of thing." He left it at that.

A moment later and the door opened quietly, shortly followed by soft footsteps. A rather confused looking Nhiilaa entered the room a moment later and handed her father her purchases. Color paled from Ingar's face; He knew that look.

--

_The day had gone, for the most part, in Nhiilaa's favor. Norbert Lelles had given her a fair price for her purchases for once and Wilbur was in the process of finding one of his best bottles of wine for a very reasonable expense. Even the whole thing with the bandits had its rewards: Nhiilaa got to see her father for a day before she dropped off the Septim heir. It was days like these that allowed for her to truly be at peace with her life._

_But there was always something to ruin the serenity, it seemed._

_Suddenly, a door opened, light spilling into the inn as a man stepped in from the portal. The Nord turned to see who it was; perhaps it was someone that she hadn't seen in ages. She _had_ been gone for almost a year, after all. A gasp escaped her lips, which in turn formed a smile._

_Indeed, it was someone she hadn't seen in all that time. Quietly, she paid Wilbur and took the bottle and turned to greet the newcomer. The smile still adorned her features as she approached the man and tapped him on the shoulder. Instantly, he turned to face her._

_"It's good to see you, Azzan," she said sincerely. To her shock, the Redguard did not look at all pleased to see her, instead looking confused and a twinge upset. Whatever was going through his head he didn't voice; in place of an answer he simply turned back around and walked out of the inn. Her smile quickly vanished as she followed him out. Could it have been possible that he didn't recognize her? No, they'd been friends since childhood. That was an impossibility._

_"Hey! Azzan! It's… it's me, Nhiilaa," she called as she ran after him, wine bottle in hand. Azzan quickened his pace and she did the same. She followed him to his home near the dock gate, where finally he stopped abruptly and turned to face her. No words fell from his lips as the door behind him opened, and a Redguard woman holding two small infants stepped out. "Are you coming inside, darling?" the woman called to Azzan. Nhiilaa's mouth fell agape at this and, for lack of better judgment, pointed awkwardly to the woman._

_"W-who is that?" she managed to stammer almost incoherently. Azzan looked up at her with an irritated look in his eyes. The man sighed deeply as he prepared to answer._

_"Lairiah. My wife," he said. Confusion broke on her face as her lips tried to form something at least semi-intelligible._

_"How long have you…been _married_?" was all she could force out._

_"Almost two years," said Azzan with another sigh. As the wheels of her mind tried to piece this together, he grasped her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes._

_"It's better this way," he said. His tone was neither condoning nor angry. It was just… factual._

_--_

"All I wanted to do was say hello to an old friend… I don't get it," she mumbled as she finished her recount of the day's events. The weight of guilt weighed heavily on Ingar's heart and crept up his throat as he pulled his daughter into a gruff hug.

"I don't understand it either," he whispered into her hair before he sat back down. With a quick motion, he took the bottle of wine and package of meat from her outstretched hands and moved to finish preparing supper.

--

No one spoke for the next hour or so. Supper was consumed in silence, and soon thereafter Ingar showed Martin to where he would be spending the night: the basement. It was actually a rather nice basement, with a bed some ways away from a small forge. Now _this_ he had expected.

The trapdoor swung shut with a loud thud as Ingar moved back into the dining area and up the stairs to what had been his wife's study. He opened the door gently to see his daughter immersed in some obscure text Hjotra had come across many years back. Upon inspection, he found that it was written almost entirely in the Ayleid language. That wasn't odd. What was odd that Nhiilaa was attempting to read it.

A loud clearing of the throat snapped her attention from the scroll she'd been entangled in up to her father's face. He'd taken a seat in a chair across from the desk and had fixed a stern look at her.

"You said you'd tell me what was so important?" he announced. Silently, Nhiilaa rolled the scroll back up and tucked it neatly into the drawer from where she had gotten it.

"I suppose I did. You're not going to be happy about it at all though," she mumbled. Her father let out a small chuckle.

"You're married to the priest?" She shook her head. "Converted to the Divines?" Another negative head shake. "Anything else is better than those two options."

"I was arrested. For erm… assault," she grumbled. Ingar let out a hearty laugh to her anger. "What's so funny?!" she demanded.

"I'm sorry, Nhiilaa. But I can't imagine my hatchling _possibly_ getting arrested. Now tell me the truth. What happened?"

"Papa… that is the truth. I was arrested and while I was in prison yesterday morning the Emperor was assassinated. With me er… standing right there and _technically_ guarding him. He was attempting to escape the City before assassins attacked, and that route led directly through my cell. Right before he died he handed me the Amulet of Kings and told me to give it to a monk named Jauffre near Chorrol. Naturally I took it to him, but the old codger told me about how Emperor Uriel had another son and how I was to go and fetch him. You probably can guess who that is…"

"You don't mean the _priest_?" A quizzical look filled his eye.

"But I do. Martin is the Septim heir." Ingar stared at his daughter in wonder and tried to comprehend just what she was telling him. If what she said was true…

"… Ysmir above, we're all about to die, aren't we?"


	7. Chapter 7

Normally Martin liked mornings. The hall in the Chapel of Akatosh had actually been bearable in contrast to some other places he'd been forced to lay his head. It got a little cold in the mornings, but nothing Martin couldn't handle. He loved how quiet it got, that sort of stillness that only came right before the other priests were about to awaken from their slumbers. He loved how everything was just… at peace. As if there was nothing to trouble them until their day officially began. Bliss.

Of course, he wasn't _in_ the chapel hall. Hell, he wasn't even in the basement of Ingar's house. It was too early in the morning to be riding a damn horse to some place that quite frankly, he did not want to go to. It was just too_ damn _early_._ Unlike Nhiilaa's own horse, she'd selected one of her father's chestnut browns for Martin to ride. And, unlike Morihaus, his horse had the grace of a dead mudcrab. Every step the old mare took was like a small earthquake which caused him to cling to the horse's neck. This, in turn, caused no end of heckling at his expense on Nhiilaa's part.

"If you had to ride this horse you'd be at your wit's end, I'll have you know," he grumbled as soon as she had recovered from a particular laughing fit. To his distress, she just shook her head and laughed even more at that.

"I don't think so. You're just panicking over nothing," giggled the Nord. "Just straighten up and ride with the motions, not against them. It's not like sitting in a chair, Martin." With a deep sigh, Martin straightened up and took a proper grip of the reins. Perhaps it would pay to try it her way at least this once. After a moment of clearing his mind, he found it much easier to 'ride with the motions'. He looked over at Nhiilaa for confirmation that he was now doing alright.

"… I said ride with the motions, not meditate on top of the horse," she said sarcastically, thoroughly soiling his pride in his accomplishment.

"That's easy for you to say," he grumbled quietly. "Just how _long_ have you been riding?"

"Uhm… let's see… about twelve years?" she mused.

"And just how old are you?"

"Nineteen." For some reason, Martin's mouth fell open slightly.

"You're _that_ young?" She nodded. As if reading his mind, she answered the question he was about to ask. "I've been on my own for a while, though. I'm sure my father worries when I'm gone, but he trusts me. He knows I won't do something completely idiotic… Well now--I really can't say that now can I? But he knows that I won't go out and get myself killed."

"Oh? So you're an experienced fighter? Fighter's Guild?—"

"No," she hastily answered. "Arena. But I'm 'retired' now." She was an Arena fighter? Martin had never really been a fan of the Arena circuit, but he did live in the only city with an Arena besides the Imperial City, and he had gone to a few matches in more recent years. Since he'd never seen her in Kvatch's Arena, she must have fought in the Imperial City circuit.

"What was your rank?" he asked, curiosity piqued. Surprisingly, she didn't answer right away. Instead she looked down at Morihaus and let out an uncomfortable cough. "Have I offended you?" Now he was a bit worried that he had.

"Erm, no… It's just a little awkward to say," she grumbled.

"I won't laugh if it's low, I swear," he offered quickly. She let out a deep sigh before she spoke.

"Grand Champion," she said, lifting her head.

--

_Home. She was finally home. Well, in a matter of speaking, that is. Anvil was never technically her home, but more of a home away from home. An awkward feeling always spread throughout her body when people stared at her in the streets; it used to be because she was a Nord, but now it was for a different reason._

_No matter. Tomorrow she and her father were setting off for her true home: Falkreath. She'd be back to the snowy landscapes and be amongst her people, speak in her own native tongue without being stared at by passerby. In fact, if anyone stared it would be because of that whole Arena thing, but even that was doubtful._

_Now she was the Grand Champion. About three and a half weeks had passed before her father would even allow for her to travel more than the Waterfront, so that had done a nice job of thoroughly locking her in the 'infirmary' of the Bloodworks for much longer than she had intended. None of that mattered now; though her wound, which now was turning into a scar rapidly, still pained her slightly and with every step she took Ingar thought that she would pass out, she was finally going home._

_But this time it was different. There'd been a feast in her honor; but people stared at her everywhere she went, whispering her Arena title and name as they went. 'Dragonheart' was on most tongues, even the tiny ones of the children. Every time she heard it, her head turned and she remembered why she had chosen that name. When Ysabel had asked her what she was to be called, something deep inside her had stirred, and one particular phrase that her mother had told her rang throughout her head._

_Of course, now that she was Champion, she could not really say that she was satisfied. Hjotra, her mother, would have been proud. Or would she? It was one of those things that Nhiilaa would never know now. One of those things that she thought she truly needed to know. Would her mother have been proud that she almost died? Fought for each and every breath she took? Taken lives of countless strangers and one former friend? In her heart, she felt that for the majority, Hjotra would have been proud. The last part…well she wasn't so sure._

_Ingar had been proud. Hjotra probably would have been proud for the most part. So why wasn't she proud of her own achievement? Why was it every time she shut her eyes she could still hear his evil laughter?_

_Why did she think that she was the one who should have been killed there?_

_--_

Martin was in shock. His silence elicited another groan on Nhiilaa's account.

"No, I'm not lying. Two years ago I killed the Gray Prince and whatnot and so forth," she said, a bored expression plastered on her face and her hand moved sarcastically with the words.

"But that means you were—"

"Seventeen. That's correct."

"And you're—"

"Dragonheart. That too is correct," she muttered. "But I'm 'retired' now, so none of that particularly matters, thank Ysmir." Nhiilaa looked over at the priest to gauge his reaction to the mention of her 'heathen god'. Thankfully, he didn't twitch or go off on a rant about how her gods are all evil and how she should convert like she had half-expected him to. "All things permitting, I don't really have to fight any more battles unless I'm challenged. And since I've never been challenged, I have a lot of free time on my hands."

--

The next few hours passed without words. After that, nothing really needed to be said on the subject; at least, nothing that really mattered. Skingrad was now fading on the background, midday sun spanning before them.

Suddenly the Nord spoke, "Let's go through the forest." Martin glanced over at her, running a quizzical eye over her face.

"You can't be serious. Didn't you say yesterday it would be _dangerous_ to do that?" he questioned in disbelief.

"That's when we were trying to outrun bandits on one horse that was burdened with two riders and a suit of ebony armor. Now said horse is rested, carrying the weight that he is accustomed to, and not galloping the distance between Anvil and Kvatch plus some miles to account for the amount of riding done on the coast. Besides, I don't want to pass Weye directly." The questioning look did not leave his face. For a moment, she pressed her hand to her temple. "It's the village directly outside of the Imperial City. You haven't done much traveling, have you?" A shake of the head told her that she was correct. Immediately she turned off of the road and into the forest, and Martin followed suit.

Sunlight filtered from the tips of tree branches down to the earth serenely. Everything in the forest was at a certain sort of stillness that could never be attained in any settlement, no matter how rural. Time seemed to stand still, and the whole worth was… perfect.

Except the gnawing hunger forming in the pit of their bellies. Neither of them had eaten since barely minutes before they had left in the cool of the early, early morning, and even that seemed a lifetime ago. The serenity of the forest was duly interrupted by the growling sound emitted from Nhiilaa's poor stomach. With much annoyance, she let out a groan of half-pain, half-irritation.

"Why didn't I pack any food?" she grumbled to herself. "Because I'm an _idiot_." She could hear Martin laughing softly at her and cast a quick glare at him.

"We'll be at the Priory soon enough," he chuckled nervously.

"More like two hours. There's a small township around here someplace. I know that they've got an inn, so they probably have food."

"Can we really afford to stop anymore?"

"Martin, I know that getting you crowned Emperor is _extremely_ important, but so is my eating. If I don't eat soon, I will jump off of this horse and decapitate the first deer I find. Do you _really_ want to be the cause of death for some poor, innocent deer?" she snapped. Silence. "That's what I thought. We're going to that town. Jauffre probably would say something along the lines of, 'Oh we must get to the Imperial City immediately! No time for food!' Now unless you want to deal with me whining for the next oh… _five_ hours you'll allow me to go and get some damn food. Any questions?"

"Yes, but just one. Are you _always_ this insufferable when you want something your way?"

"_Yes_," she hissed angrily, but Martin could tell that she was actually being serious. He pitied the man unfortunate enough to marry her, if indeed that ever happened. Though for some reason, he highly doubted that it would.

Time came and went until the pair finally reached the town. It was… not anything that Martin had been expecting. He'd at the very least expected _decent_ buildings, not these burned down ruins.

"Are you positive there's a town here?" he questioned.

"Absolutely. I was here last year with my father when he was running a shipment of weapons up to Chorrol," she said, but her voice was now falling to a whisper. "Apparently some years back the Legion had to be called in this town for some reason. Burned it straight to the ground, and the survivors built it back up from the ashes. As a result, the people aren't the friendliest… but quite honestly I couldn't care less." It took a moment for Martin to realize the gravity of what she was saying.

"… What was it burned down for?"

"Something about sacrificing lambs. Or was it calves? Who cares? They have food, and I'm hungry." This was beginning to seem like a _terrible_ idea, but Martin could see that there was no way to stop her. As soon as they arrived at what appeared to be the inn, the pair dismounted from their steeds and tethered them to a near-by tree before they entered the establishment.

Much to Nhiilaa's anger, the entire place was deserted. No publican behind the bar, no customers at the tables. The upstairs leading to presumably the guest rooms was also locked. She let out an angry cry before kicking a chair over. Immediately Martin picked it up from where it lay on the ground and set it back up in its appropriate place.

"Perhaps they're all in the chapel across the courtyard? I saw someone going into it earlier. We could ask where the publican is," he offered in an attempt to be helpful.

"Leave it to a priest to think that they're in a church," she muttered angrily before shoving the door open and stomping off in the direction of the church with Martin almost at her heels. Even with all her bravado and heckling, she was not much more than an adolescent, albeit one who could wield a blade.

The old door creaked open as Nhiilaa forced it open as quietly as she possibly could. An overpowering scent of incense wafted through the room and filled her senses as she walked through the room. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust in the dim light, and was disappointed as soon as it did. Quickly, she turned to the priest and pointed at him accusingly.

"There's no one in here," she growled as she turned back around and marched up to the altar. With as much hatred as she could muster, she shot a glare at the back of the priest's head, who had turned away from her to examine the ceiling of the chapel. Her gaze fell upon a book nestled upon the altar. At first, she assumed it to be some piece of ridiculous Imperialistic dogma, but out of pure curiosity opened the tome. What she found truly surprised her.

"What are you doing?" Martin hissed, interrupting her thoughts. "You're going through a holy text, I believe!"

"Oh really? Since when did the Imperial church start using daedric lettering in their texts?" mused the Nord, casting a critical glare in his direction.

"We don't," he said simply. Nhiilaa crossed her arms triumphantly and returned her attention to the manuscript.

"Watch for people. I'm going to copy this down." With that, she dropped her satchel to the floor and pulled from it a leaf of parchment and a piece of rough charcoal.

"You're going to _what_?" he whispered in disbelief as he cracked the door open a ways. To his annoyance, she just ignored him.

"Seht… oht… cess… xayah—" he could hear her muttering as she scribbled down the lettering carelessly. "Oh bugger. Uh…"

"What?" he hissed back at her as he turned around. On her face was a look of concern.

"This ah… this isn't daedric."

"What do you mean 'it's not daedric'? You just said it was written in the alphabet!"

"I _know_ that. It's in the alphabet, but it's not the language. For one, there is no formal 'x' in _real_ written daedric," she sniffed. 'Now how the hell would she know that?' he thought, bewildered. "Go see if anyone's coming," she whispered urgently as she shut the book and stuffed it, the parchment, and her charcoal back into her bag. Martin nodded and opened the door a crack. It looked as if half of the village was exiting the inn and coming toward the chapel.

"They're coming! … We are not taking that book with us, Nhiilaa," he scolded.

"But I _know_ I've seen this passage before somewhere," the Nord hissed back.

"So you're _stealing_ it?"

"… Well if you want to call it that, then yes, I am. I was just going to call it 'borrowing with absolutely no intention of returning', but whatever you say, _priest_. Now come on, we have to get out of here before someone catches us."

"Us? You're the one stealing their relic! And they're almost here, you ninny. How do you expect to make this grand escape of yours?" A mischievous spark formed in her eyes as she looked up to the hatch above them. "You can't be serious," Martin moaned.

"But I am," she put succinctly as she turned about and began her ascent on the ladder. A moment later, and the pair was sitting on the roof of the chapel, and not a moment too soon as all the inhabitants entered the church.

"They're going to notice that their book is gone, you idiot," he hissed. "And just _how_ do you suppose we get down from here? It's not like we can jump down!"

"Don't be stupid. We're going to climb down," she retorted. Almost immediately, she swung her one leg over the ledge, then the other, and allowed herself to drop to a lower level. A ghost-pale Martin quickly followed her, shaking as he fell to the slope. The girl shimmied down the side of the chapel using a small notch to support her as she descended. Her feet touched the ground harshly, sending a jarring feeling throughout her body for but a moment before she allowed room for her companion to descend in the same manner. He was… less graceful in his controlled fall and landed on his ankle precariously. A hand clapped over his mouth before he could let out a howl of pain, and looked up to the Nord, whose free hand was making repeated 'shush' movements over her lips. Biting his tongue to prevent himself from whimpering as he stepped on his hurt ankle, the two moved as quickly as possible to where the horses were tethered, Nhiilaa's bag bouncing against her shoulder as they went. With a quick motion, she assisted Martin's haphazard clamber into his horse's saddle before she untied the reins of both steeds and almost literally jumping onto Morihaus' back.

"Where are we going now?" Martin muttered through the pain shooting up his ankle as they spurred their horses into a canter in the direction of Chorrol.

"Isn't that obvious?" she asked, rhetoric in her voice. "We're going to Chorrol. Can't you heal your own ankle? I'd really rather not have to go to the chapel or the Mages Guild in this city. Teekeeus is an annoying twit."

"I suppose I could… I'd need to be able to sit down for about an hour though," he mumbled.

"Good. Food first, then book," she said excitedly.

"Then book? What are you _talking_ about?" She couldn't mean—

"Well you can't really expect me to not go to Renoit's to confirm my suspicions about this book, can you? … Actually don't answer that. You probably could. Either way, we're going to Renoit's. There's something incredibly wrong with that town, and I want to know what."

"Nhiilaa, you need to be taking me to Jauffre. I'm fairly certain that the fate of the Empire is more important than one half-burnt town in the middle of nowhere and your 'gut feeling'," he said, a little louder than he had intended it to come out. His words echoed throughout the forest awkwardly. Suddenly she stopped.

"If that's the way you feel, _priest_, then you can get off of my father's horse and walk to Weynon Priory on your own. I have a feeling about this town that something horrible, something worse than this… blither blather nonsense book is letting on. I can almost _name_ where I've seen this passage before, and quite frankly it's scaring the hell out of me. Now, you can either trust me or get lost in this damn forest on your own, _your Highness_," she snarled, throwing in a mock bow and reverence as she spoke.

Now he understood why everyone thought that Nords were all completely and utterly _psychotic_.

--

_Author's Note: Yeah yeah yeah, I know Hackdirt's not in the main questline, but I LIKE HACKDIRT. :p Hackdirt makes me happy._


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: FEAR THE CRAZY LONG CHAPTER BWAHAHAHAHAH_

In truth, Nhiilaa hadn't been all that angry with Martin at all. It had mainly been the ravishing hunger that had been seemingly ripping apart her stomach from the inside that had irritated her. Estelle Renoit had been more than accommodating in allowing her to pore over her collection of daedric related texts, and she even offered her assistance when she was not aiding a customer. Martin, on the other hand, sat in a corner and glared at her past the piles of books, every so often letting out a deep sigh in irritation.

She _hadn't_ been angry at him. Now she was quite upset with him, which in turn made her more and more frustrated with her search. It had only been two hours since she began her search and already her patience with him was wearing thin. The solitude of rustling pages was interrupted by yet _another_ heavy exhalation on the priest's account. Irritated, the Nord snapped the book she had been searching through shut loudly.

"If you're not going to help, then you might as well leave," she griped tiredly. Of course, he ignored her. He'd been ignoring her since their little argument in the forest. Obviously, this was _very_ mature of him. _Extremely_ mature, even.

The parchment that contained her translation of the bible, at least she supposed it was a bible; after all it had been in a church, starred up at her from its resting place of the floor. Nhiilaa could feel a headache forming as her eyes fell upon that first 'x'. If her translation was correct, it wasn't the only one either. 'But there _aren't _any x's in daedric texts,' she thought as she chewed on her lip. All of the books she'd searched in the past two hours had confirmed that, and so that meant this wasn't a daedric text. Which meant that she'd _wasted_ the last two hours searching through religious dogma and research on daedra themselves when this wasn't even a daedric passage.

But if it wasn't daedric, then what the devil was it? Perhaps it was—

Her near-trance was shattered by the sudden burst of light filtered in from the front door. A tall Altmer man strode in, bow and quiver secured firmly on his back, straight to Estelle, who in turn stood and chatted with the man as she saw to his business.

"—It's a shame about what happened to that Argonian lass, just disappearing like that. It's not like Dar-Ma to do that. Seed-Neeus is worried sick," the Nord could hear Estelle muttering to the Altmer. Quickly, she stood, dislodging a tome from her lap.

"Dar-Ma is missing?" she said suddenly, which was quickly followed by another sigh from Martin. Nhiilaa chose to ignore it.

"Ah, yes. She disappeared two days ago. Apparently she went on some delivery to the town to the south of here and never returned. Seed-Neeus has been such a wreck these last two days," Estelle said sadly. Without another word, Nhiilaa grabbed onto the priest's wrist and dragged him out of the shop and toward Northern Goods and Trade.

"What are we doing _now_?" the priest grumbled aloud as he was pulled behind. "… You're going to want to find this girl, aren't you?"

"Your powers of observation are truly amazing. It's a wonder why they haven't made you Emperor yet," she snapped as she pushed him into the shop and ascended the staircase quickly. An Argonian woman sat at a desk and stared at a sort of ledger uninterestedly. As Nhiilaa approached the desk, the woman looked up at her, eyes still somewhat holding a glazed over look to them.

"Oh, hello," she greeted, sadness bleeding into every word.

"H-hello. I heard that Dar-Ma was missing," the Nord responded quickly. Immediately, Seed-Neeus' face fell as she let out a heavy sigh. That sound was already wearing on Nhiilaa's nerves, and so she shot a glare in Martin's direction.

"She left two days ago to make a delivery in Hackdirt. I usually make the deliveries, but I wasn't feeling too well that day, so she went in my place. She hasn't returned though, and this isn't like her at all," the Argonian recounted. It seemed as if she'd said a great number of times.

"If I may, I would like to offer my assistance to find her," Nhiilaa mumbled, confidence lost. To her surprise, the Argonian's face lit up with hope.

"Thank you. I don't know how much help it would be, but Dar-Ma would never leave her horse, Blossom." The Nord nodded and left the shop, priest rushing to catch up with the fast-paced girl who was practically sprinting off toward the gates.

"Do you think we actually have time for this? What with you running off to find a _book_ and then going to save one girl? Isn't the lives of every other citizen in the Empire—" Nhiilaa whirled around quickly, almost throwing Martin off of his balance.

"Martin, don't you _even_ finish that sentence. I don't know about you, but my conscious could not bear knowing that we 'saved the Empire' while _willingly _damning one person to death, or worse. I didn't volunteer your services, and now that your ankle is all healed up you might as well walk to Weynon Priory if you're going to be like every other damned… person who's just far too busy to help one person," she hissed angrily. While she had _said_ 'person', he knew what she had really meant: If he was going to be like every other _Imperial_. "I don't _care_ what your decision is, Martin, but frankly it's a sad day when the _Emperor_ is too good to care about one of his people." This struck a chord in his heart: that poor girl was one of his subjects, according to the Nord. Could he really just leave her to die when he knew he could have helped her?

"… Alright," he sighed as he followed her past the stables. "We're not taking the horses?"

"They might've seen then when we were there this morning. They might not have recognized Bala, but they would have definitely recognized Morihaus," she said. Every horse her father owned had a name, and she knew them all. That confounded Martin; after all, it was just a horse. Then again, a lot of things about this girl confused him. A half an hour came and went, and not a word was spoken until the two reached the burnt ruins of the outskirts of the town.

"What exactly are we looking for?" he whispered as they neared the town.

"The horse, I suppose. Seed-Neeus said she wouldn't leave the beast, so if the horse is here, she can't be that far off," responded the girl.

"Why wouldn't they own horses here?"

"You really think this is a rich enough area to own horses? Horses are _very_ expensive, Martin, even slow old nags like paint horses." Floorboards creaked quietly underneath Nhiilaa's feet as she examined some of the ruins. Suddenly she stopped and looked down.

"I found something," she half-whispered to her companion, who came immediately at her call. With silence, she pointed to the floor in front of her. There, in the middle of all the ash and rubble, was a freshly swept off trap-door, recently used by the looks of it.

"Maybe someone was trying to get into their old basement?" the priest offered, hoping that the girl was not about to do what he thought she was about to do.

"And why would they go back now, when they had the opportunity to do so after all these years?" she retorted as she attempted to pull up the door. "Damn, locked." Unfortunately for Martin, Nhiilaa pulled a lock pick from one of her shirt pockets and at once set to work on unlocking the door.

"And now you're adding breaking and entering to your list of crimes?" he whispered angrily at her. "Where did you learn how to use one of those, anyway?"

"I have all male cousins who liked to lock me in a disconcerting Dunmer's basement. The woman kept _rats _as pets. You learn to use one fast when you have little rodents nipping at your ankles," she snapped back.

"You shouldn't—" Martin was interrupted by a snapping sound, followed by Nhiilaa looking up at him, an expression of utter contempt painted on her face as she held up the stub of her lock pick.

"That was my last one. I hope you're happy," she sniped, standing. Annoyed, she looked around for some way to unlock the door. Her gaze fell through the window of the ruined house. "I think I found the horse," she mumbled and dashed out of the house toward another ruin. Promptly the Imperial ran after her, and lo and behold, there was the paint horse, who was tied to a free pipe, presumably that had once run to a small wood-burning oven. The poor thing looked starved, and Nhiilaa pulled a carrot from her bag to feed to the horse.

"Well, here's the horse. But where's the Argonian?" she mused and looked around. After a few moments of gazing, she found that the horse was tethered directly next to an unhurt building. "Perhaps someone in there knows where Dar-Ma spirited off to?" Nhiilaa thought to herself as she began to walk toward the building.

The sign affixed to the front of the small structure read 'Moslin's Dry Goods'. The name seemed familiar. A few moments later she realized where: a name in the preface of the 'bible' had the surname of Moslin. A relation, most likely. 'Come to think of it, the name of the inn was 'Moslin's Inn',' she thought to herself, nudging the door open with a loud squeak. The hinges were in a desperate need of a spot of oil, Nhiilaa noted.

An extremely unpleasant woman glowered at the two as their eyes adjusted to the light. "You two gonna buy something or just gawk at me?" the woman snarled. 'Not the friendliest' had been an understatement when Nhiilaa had said it just this morning. This woman was downright appalling.

"Ah, no. We were hoping you could help us," the Nord began. "You see, we're looking for someone, and Argonian lass named Dar-Ma-"

"Yeah I've seen her. Dropped off the goods at a ridiculous price and then left," snapped the woman. This confused Nhiilaa.

"But… that is her horse outside your shop, is it not?"

"That's _my_ horse. Had her for years." Confusion wiped clear from the girl's face, to Martin's shock, and she straightened up and assumed a pleasant air.

"Oh, I'm very sorry to have bothered you. We'll just be going then," she said, a smile fashioned on her lips. With a quick spin, she nudged Martin out of the store and back into the abrasive light, leaving the woman snickering to herself and muttering something about the Brethren.

"You think she was lying?" the cleric muttered.

"I know she is. If that's her horse, then why did the poor thing look so hungry and scared? She was ready to bolt," she responded. "We might try the inn. She probably stayed here last night." The pair briskly walked into the inn to find the publican about to leave the tavern unattended.

"What do _you_ want?" he grumbled, a mixture of hostility and exhaustion laced his voice. Again, Nhiilaa assumed her aura of congeniality before she spoke.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, sir, would you happen to know if an Argonian girl has been here in I believe the last two days? Her name is Dar-Ma," she smiled sweetly.

"She was here. Ain't here now. I'm busy, so unless you're going to rent a room for the night you better be leavin'," the man, presumably Moslin, snapped. As part of her act, Nhiilaa's face fell into a confused half-frown.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," she sniffed and opened the entrance, allowing for light to spill into the bar. As soon as Nhiilaa and Martin were out of eyesight, Moslin too exited the inn and rushed toward the church. From around the corner, both Nord and Imperial crept toward the bar and slipped in quietly and climbed the staircase to what they thought were the guest rooms. Again the door was locked.

"… And to think, this all could have been avoided if someone hadn't made me break my last lock pick," she complained sarcastically. Instead of preparing some sort of witty retort, Martin rolled his eyes and nudged her aside. Without a word, he placed a fingertip on the lock and whispered some sort of incantation. The lock clicked and he pushed the door open. "I should have paid more attention during my alteration lessons," the lass pondered as she crept inside the room as softly as she could. The duo turned to the right and examined the sight before them.

The room had been all but destroyed. Papers lay strewn all over the floor, the candlestick bent and nearly broken, dresser drawers tossed into walls and had apparently shattered. Underneath the remnants of the bureau, Nhiilaa could see a small, leather book lying unnoticed on the floor. Awkwardly, she stepped over the debris and snatched it up before returning to her place at Martin's side, who was just afraid to touch anything.

"C'mon, let's get out of here before that man returns," he mumbled. As swiftly as they'd entered, they scattered out into the courtyard, journal tucked under Nhiilaa's arm as they darted into the rubble of the burnt ruins. Nhiilaa cracked open the journal as she slid to a portion of the floor recently swept clean of the ashes, rapidly scanning the words for some sort of hint to Dar-Ma's whereabouts. Mainly useless prattle, until the very last entry.

--

'_Arrived in Hackdirt after dark, due to Blossom throwing a shoe on the way – the road was REALLY rough! Hardly more than a track – doesn't anyone else ever come down here?!_

_The trader's shop was closed, and she wouldn't come to the door even though I could see a light in the upstairs window – RUDE!! But at least this inn was open (although the proprietor is kind of creepy – kept giving me these weird grins when he thought I wasn't looking – ugh.) And what's wrong with his face??_

_Seems like I'm the only one staying here tonight. I didn't see much of the town since it was already dark, but I admit to being kind of spooked – but I'll never admit that to Mother! Or she'd never let me go on another one of these deliveries. She still thinks I'm just a baby (she would probably say "hatchling," and in front of my friends too!) Remember to ask her about the creepy innkeeper when I get home._

_Well, the candle is almost burned down (they don't even provide a lantern in this horrible old inn!), so I guess I'd better try to get some sleep. If I CAN even sleep with all the creaking in this old place! I keep thinking I hear footsteps outside the door, I'm so on edge – GROW UP, Dar! I'm sure in the morning it will all seem quaint and charming. Good night, Diary!'_

--

"Well, she was definitely here, which _proves_ that they've been lying to us so far," Nhiilaa murmured as she finished reading, Martin scanning the passage over her shoulder.

"You don't belong here!" A voice startled her out of her thought process, and she looked up to see an Imperial man nervously staring down at her. To her disbelief he bent down to eye level with her.

"You've been asking about the Argonian. People've noticed. She's in danger, but I can't talk about it now. Meet me at my house after dark; it's southeast of most of the other houses," the man whispered. "I'm Jiv, by the way." And with that, he sprinted off in the opposite direction, leaving a stunned pair of travelers to sit and mull in their own mystification.

"I'm confused," she said after a good, long minute or so. All Martin could do was nod in agreement. "What do we do now?"

"I… I'm not sure. I suppose we just wait until sunset and find that Jiv fellow," he suggested. A cold shiver ran up Nhiilaa's spine suddenly. Instantaneously, she jumped to her feet and her hand flew to Arpenalatta's hilt. "What's wrong?" he asked urgently, his own fingers playing on the tip of his dagger's handle.

"Not sure. Just… it's just a gut feeling. I've learned to trust it. Martin, there is something dangerously wrong with this entire town," she hissed, drawing her blade as gently as she could. A quick nod on her part told him to do the same. They stood in complete, eerie stillness for several moments, and then Martin heard it: a faint, barely audible scratching sort of sound, chased shortly by several pairs of feet slithering through the grass. Instinct told him to run, to get the hell out of there as quickly as he could, but a hand stopped him; Nhiilaa's hand on his shoulder, holding him back so that he could not flee. For some reason, she absolutely refused to make eye contact with him, her gaze affixed firmly past him onto the snippets of what used to be a window.

Abruptly the footsteps halted, only to be replaced by a sickeningly loud sound of breath, a sort of nasally reverberation from directly outside their hideaway's walls. Tension filled the air, wrenching on every muscle and tendon in Nhiilaa's body until they were taut. A familiar feeling flowed through her veins and the grip on her sword relaxed a bit as she let her own instincts wash over her. Unlike Martin, her natural instinct was to fight, not scamper away like a frightened puppy.

Split seconds dragged on into horrific, unbearable minutes. Without warning, a twisted face peered around the corner, jagged and pointed teeth warped into a perverse grin, bulging eyes nearly bursting from their sockets. The creature let out an evil sort of high pitched hiss as it rounded the corner, three other sprites like it following closely behind. Each wielded a massive, spiked club in their hands and a guise of resolute insanity and bloodlust in their eyes and faces.

Like lightning striking the earth, so did the four abominations strike at their two victims. Wither unearthly-quick movements, Nhiilaa moved in front of Martin, who was momentarily immobile due to the grotesque appearance of their attackers, and parried the blows with one deft motion. In the same instant she launched an attack of her own with a lunge toward the closest fiend. Her blade caught him in the side, blood pouring from his wounds and onto the ruined flooring and grass beside it as he fell.

The sight of first blood knocked Martin from his stupor. Magicka tingled in his fingers as he struggled to remember the spell for frost spells. He was just about to release a rather clumsily formed one—

But then it was over. All four assailants lay dead around Nhiilaa's feet, and the Nord straightened up to her full height and inspected her blood-covered blade and shoes. She cried out in disgust as she hopped out of the pool of blood forming around her ankles as it drained from the corpses. As Martin stared at the vile creatures with curiosity, she shucked off her shoes and slipped on a pair of rough leather boots produced from the reaches of her bag before wiping her blade off on the grass and sheathing it.

"What in the hell are those things?" she asked, returning to his side. He was about to answer her when she suddenly grasped one of the corpses by the hair and pulled upwards to allow for a better examination of the facial features.

"Nhiilaa! That's a _corpse_," Martin hissed as she squatted down to inspect it.

"Well it was alive up until a minute or so, no thanks to your efforts," she said. Shame, in the form of a flush to the face, blossomed on his cheeks as soon as she said this. "Besides, a key just fell out of this one's pocket. Check the pockets of the other ones."

"… You can't be serious."

"Oh what now? It's _dead_, Martin. It's not going to jump up and attack you. Just shake it a bit and see if a key falls out of its pockets if you don't want to put your hands in it. Or are you too scared to even do that?" The urge to vomit rose quickly as he knelt down and shook the corpse a bit, but he repressed it with ever single iota of self-control and will that he still had. Luckily, a key too fell out of the corpse's pockets and narrowly missed the ever growing puddle of crimson fluid as the priest deftly picked it up off of the ground. "Give it here," she whispered. Instead of awaiting for the Imperial to hand the key to her, she plucked it from his fingertips and held it up to the piece of metal in her other hand.

"It's the same key," she gasped in awe. A calculating expression swept over her face.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered. If this was going where he thought it was…

"I'm debating on whether we have time to go get my armor or not."

It was definitely going where he thought it was going. The priest let out a groan of protest as the girl apparently decided against it and slid the key into the lock of the trap door. It unlocked with a heavy thunk. Nhiilaa's lips spread into a triumphant grin as she lifted the cumbersome wood and swung her legs down onto the rungs of a ladder leading downward.

"Shouldn't we wait until we meet with Jiv to go 'exploring'?" Martin whispered nervously as he followed her down.

"Humor me," was all she said while her feet touched the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

"Have I mentioned that you're insane?" asked Martin as the pair walked through the tunnels. They'd been attacked by more of those… creatures, and that stupid, stupid Nord girl had gone and gotten herself injured multiple times. They were just scratches, she said, and that she'd had much worse. What infuriated Martin was that not once did she stop to even _look_ at her wounds. Blood-flow had stopped a while ago… but still. "Because you are. You really, truly are. Those wounds could be worse than you—"

"Martin," Nhiilaa snapped suddenly. "I've had most of the bones in my hands broken, countless gashes rent on my arms and body, both my arms broken three or four times within a three year period, an arrow buried in my shoulder, impaled with a daedric weapon, and nearly beheaded. I'm fairly certain that my body can handle a few tiny cuts and bruises, so kindly shut up or I'll do it for you."

Of course, he would not let it drop. "Why in Talos' name would you ever allow for that sort of thing to happen to you?" he hissed in the dark, prompting Nhiilaa to roll her eyes, despite his lack of ability to see that she had. "Because I get bored ever _so_ easily. It's not like I _wanted_ to be impaled with a daedric weapon. Do you _possibly_ understand how much that hurts?"

"Well considering that I've never actually been stabbed," he started. "Then you've no room to talk on the state of my well-being, now do you?" she finished. And with that, Martin finally shut up. All that could be heard now was the muffled sound of their footsteps as they moved. The pair stepped out of a small tunnel and into a well lit cavern, and Nhiilaa let her illumination spell fade. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the light, but once it had, they could see that on the opposite wall was a small cage, an Argonian trapped inside.

"That must be her," Nhiilaa murmured as she briskly walked to the cage. Inside it, Dar-Ma stirred slightly from her slumber as the Nord girl approached. Before she could speak, Nhiilaa made a motion for her to keep quiet, with which she complied as Nhiilaa took out the key that had let them into the caverns and slid it into the lock. The bolt opened with a heavy clunking sound, and the small gate itself opened with an awful screeching sound, prompting Martin to involuntarily flinch in fear of the creatures that could come running at any time.

"Is there any way we could possibly hurry this up?" he twittered nervously as the Argonian stepped out from her prison. Unexpectedly, she grabbed both Nord and Imperial into an embrace of thanks, rapidly whispering something about how she was going to be sacrificed and how grateful she was to be free. Nhiilaa managed to escape from the girl's vice-like grip and turned to see a rather convenient manner of escaping.

"Well, apparently the whole town's in on this escapade. Look. Another ladder up to the town," she said triumphantly, grasping one of the rungs in her hands. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Shouldn't we—"

"Martin, less talkie, more get your ass up the damn ladder-ie. Or stay here. Either way, shut up," the Nord called from the top. Dar-Ma shrugged and followed the girl up the ladder, leaving Martin at the bottom alone. As he clambered up after the two females, Nhiilaa could hear him muttering curses about how much he hated her right now. Really, she thought he would have caught on that she didn't actually _care_ about what he thought of her.

--

"Now, _who_ was right that there was something off about that town?" Nhiilaa gloated. Since they'd left Dar-Ma with Seed-Neeus only a few minutes before there'd been no end to her remarks about how she'd been right and how he almost left a poor innocent girl to be sacrificed to heathen gods. He let out a heavy sigh as he prepared to answer.

"If you hadn't have reduced yourself to petty thievery you'd never have even gone to Chorrol and you would have never heard that the poor girl was in trouble," he retorted angrily as they mounted their respective steeds. "Haven't you learned anything!?" At least she'd taken to the time to don her armor before they left.

"You're right Martin," she said suddenly. He stopped. He was… right? No witty retort? No snarky comment to attempt to put him in his place?

"I am?" A guilty look spread across her face.

"I suppose. I have learned something from this whole excursion, though." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I've learned that it always pays to take things that look suspicious for closer examination. Who knows? It might belong to a mass-murdering heathen cult," Nhiilaa smirked. His eyes narrowed into a scathing glare.

"That's not what I meant—" A hand suddenly flew over his mouth, and the Nord shot him a serious glance while motioning for silence.

"Do you hear that?" she whispered. Indeed, he could hear some sound from off in the distance. "It's coming from the direction of the—oh no…" As soon as that was said, the Nord spurred Morihaus into a gallop down the road. The priest quickly followed suit, but could barely keep up with the speedy white stallion as it barreled down the road, nearly knocking a wandering traveler off of the road. The evening sun glared in his eyes as the two horses raced toward the sounds.

The noise grew louder until Nhiilaa could fully distinguish what it was: cries for help. To Martin's surprise, she stopped abruptly, almost causing the two steeds to careen with one another, and leapt from her beast, sword in now gauntlet-covered hands. The source of the pleas, an elderly Dunmer, grabbed her by the arm and pulled the horses, along with Martin and Nhiilaa into the stable and ducked his head down low while motioning for the two to do the same.

"You've got to help us!" he hissed quietly. "They killed Prior Maborel, and I think they're close behind—" Nhiilaa made no attempt to answer him; she just dashed underneath the stone archway.

… They were too late. Two monks already lay dead in a pool of their own blood, though she couldn't tell which one was Maborel. Bile rose in her throat as she noticed the face, or lack there of, which had been smashed in on itself with some sort of mace. It was the same for the other monk as well. Unfortunately for the Nord, the assailants were still there, though their backs were turned to her at the moment. The murderers seemed to be almost gloating about their latest kills, blood of the monks dropping to the earth from their maces with a revolting sort of clatter. A retching sound came from behind her, and she was certain that if she turned, she would see Martin doubled over in disgust. If the assassins hadn't noticed her before, they did now, and each whirled around, mace overhead, to attack the Nord and her companion.

Nhiilaa made a mental note to personally throttle Martin if she got out of this alive.

Without thinking, she held her sword up to parry the blow. The impact sent a familiar wave of shock through her arm, but she held her ground against the onslaught. It wouldn't do to drop the bravado now that the assailant had attacked. Another parry, and she returned the blow with her own offensive lunge forward, blade aimed at her opponent's shoulder. At the last moment, she twisted her wrist, the sword's tip following through toward its new target of the exposed flesh between cuirass and helm. The daedric armor screeched as Arpenalatta scratched its surface to bury itself in the attacker's collar bone.

He, for the attacker's scream was definitely masculine, let out a cry and returned the attack by flailing the mace recklessly toward her head. Martin froze in shock and horror as Nhiilaa ducked nearly too late, the edge of the bludgeon grazing her hair slightly, pulling a few strands out of place. The Nord wrenched her blade from her opponent's body and smashed the hilt of the sword against his temple, sending the man falling to the ground in awe. Her grip on Arpenalatta changed drastically, blade now angling downward, and thrust it down into his throat, silencing him forever. In a flash, she gripped the other one's helmet with her free hand and, with a booming cry, smashing it into the wall next to her and ran her sword through the assassin's back.

Armor disappeared in a puff of yellow and crimson smoke, leaving the man and woman clad in a mass of red robes and a matching hood. Nhiilaa wiped the blood from Arpenalatta on the hem of the robe and held it at her side. Her gaze fixed upon the door to the main house as she listened for more cries, but none came. A groan escaped from her lips for a moment.

"Would it be better if I covered his face?" she grumbled to Martin while she turned to face him. The priest leaned up against the wall for support, looked to the sky in order to not see the faceless monk's corpse and shook his head.

"N-no… I'll be fine," he whispered. Surprisingly, the girl put a metal-covered hand on his shoulder in what he guessed was a comforting gesture. Slowly, he lowered his face to look her in the face, her eyes, for once, full of concern.

"You sure?" He nodded, swallowing harshly. "Well, we should check for survivors. Let's check the chapel first." Martin turned to see the chapel of which she spoke, and they entered it quickly.

Another pair of assassins lay dead at their feet upon entry, a bloody sword held aloft by, ironically, Jauffre. An expression of relief filled his face as he saw that she had Martin in tow.

"Thank Talos you're back," he breathed. Apparently he was less used to fighting than expected. "They attacked without warning! I was praying in the chapel when I heard Prior Maborel shout, and I had just enough time to arm myself." Jauffre filled his lungs with fresh air before he continued. "I fear they were after the Amulet of Kings. I kept it in a secret room in the Weynon House—"

"I'll go find it," she said hastily. The old monk nodded. "We shall all go," he said as he dashed out the door, the young Nord and priest at his heels. They dashed across the courtyard without speaking, the two younger ones attempting to not gaze at the grisly corpses that littered the ground.

An eerie silence hung in the air as the company entered the house. The thieves had just been here, it seemed, for papers fluttered to the floor in a dream-like quiet, the plate of apples overturned, fruit still rolling on the floor from their fall. Jauffre sprinted up the stairs and out of sight in a flash, leaving both Nhiilaa and Martin to ascend the case solemnly after him. However, something caught the Nord's attention, a single sheet of paper, face down, that looked like it had been stepped on by the old monk in his haste. As Martin followed Jauffre up the stair case towards the supposedly secret room, she bent down and plucked the sheet from its resting place.

--

_Mother,_

_Please don't worry. The Elder Council knows what it is doing. Uriel was an old man. They knew he wouldn't live forever, and I'm sure they had plans for the succession. Of course, now with the three princes dead, it's not clear who will be the next emperor, but it's happened before -- there are precedents, I'm sure -- and anyway, Ocato and the Council have been running the Empire for the past 15 years anyway. So there's nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine.  
I don't know what you've read or heard, but here at the Priory everyone seems to think it must have been madmen or witches or crazy cultists. It doesn't look at all political. It's horrible and depressing, but the Empire will survive. There will not be rioting or civil war or another Warp in the West. So please. If you like, go stay with Uncle Korr and Aunt Harrah on the farm for a while. But I'm certain you'll be perfectly safe in the City. I'll try to get down to visit as soon as possible. And I hope to hear from you soon.  
Your loving son,  
Piner_

_--_

A tear fell onto the paper, which was now held by shaking hands. Which one had been Piner? It upset her that she didn't know. How could she have not even paid attention to these monks when she'd first come here? How could she—

"Nhiilaa?" Martin's voice from above her rang out. With a quivering hand, she wiped away the remnants of her tears, and masked it as an effort to push back the loose strands of hair.

"Oh… right, the Amulet. I—"

"The Amulet is gone," Jauffre said suddenly.

"I brought back Martin," the Nord said weakly. "At least the heir is safe…" She turned slowly and saw that Jauffre was now standing behind her. Quickly, she folded the note behind her back and slipped it into her gauntlet. Despite the good news that the heir was indeed safe and sound, Jauffre did not look at all pleased.

"Martin cannot stay here, Nhiilaa, nor is there any place that is truly safe for him to go."

"Well where the devil _would_ he be able to go? I'm certainly not taking him back to Anvil," she snapped. The old monk sighed.

"He would be safe enough at Cloud Ruler Temple. It's an ancient—"

"I hate to interrupt, but we're a _little_ pressed for time. Just where is it?" Nhiilaa said suddenly, in no mood for history.

"Northwest of Bruma. If we leave now, we should be able to get there by dawn," the monk sniped, irritated at her lack of patience. Martin flinched slightly, expecting the Nord to go off on some tangent about how it was almost nightfall, how hungry she was, and how she wasn't taking one more step until she got something to eat and a bit to rest.

"Fine, let's go then," she barked, turning on her heel and slamming the door open. The two men followed her quickly, almost losing her as she stalked off to the stables. As she waited for the other two, she made certain that Morihaus' bags and saddle were affixed properly to the beast. Once she was satisfied with the state of her steed, she mounted, Jauffre taking a chestnut horse that had already been there, and Martin taking Bala.

--

_It was ironic, how she could blame herself so vehemently about something that she knew couldn't possibly be her fault. It's not like she knew that the Priory was going to be attacked and that she'd intentionally procrastinated going there at every turn to give the assassins due time to rob the place of the one thing that would pull the Empire out of chaos. She'd done what her gut had told her to do, she'd saved a girl from being sacrificed…at the expense of two followers of Talos. Ironic, wasn't it?_

_Something inside her still told her that somehow… somehow she was to blame. A mother lost her child, and it was her fault. The Empire would spiral into a darker nightmare, and it was all because she had to go and forsake her duties to fulfill her own petty curiosity._

_--_

They'd reached Cloud Ruler hours ago, and still the Nord hadn't said another word since they left the Priory. Not a single snide remark as Martin bumbled along, nearly falling off of his horse more than once, nearly giving Jauffre a heart attack several times, no more gloating about how right she had been, or guesses about where she'd seen the passage in the bible before.

If it wasn't her fault, then why did she feel so guilty?


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: So I know this update is severely behind, but I was gone all last week. And I'm going to be gone all of next week too /_

Dawn crept eerily over the Jeralls the next morning. It was the sort of morning that was none-too friendly; as if the sun was in cahoots with the bloody moon and its twin demon, and that they were just playing some sick game to amuse themselves while all the ground-dwellers scurried about their business for their entertainment. A fog had descended on the temple in the early, early hours of the morning, blanketing the place with the feeling of a bone-freezing chill.

The main area of the living quarters was packed full with sleeping Blades, a slightly muggy feeling combating the frost in a not-so-good way. Yet somehow, it was a comfort to Nhiilaa. The Nord opened one eye, then the other, and sat straight up, pulling her thin blanket tightly around her shoulders as she did so. The wood of the floorboards cooled her feet while she fumbled in the dim light for her boots, and upon finding them, she slipped into them. Out of habit, she buckled her belt over her rough pants, the familiar weight of Arpenalatta at her hip reassuringly. It was the only console she had at the moment.

Leather boots made soft sounds on the ground as she made her way out of the living quarters and into the main hall, figuring that everyone would be still asleep at this hour save a few of the Blades on patrol, and that she could finally have a meal in peace. That was, at least, her hope.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be realized this morning. To her dismay, there sat Martin, a mug of what smelled faintly of tea held in one hand, some musty book from most likely the library in the other one. Of course, he was right in front of the fire, where she had wanted to place herself initially. After a quick adjustment to her plan, she tucked her chin into her collarbone, ducking her head down. There was, of course, no way to disguise her blonde braids, but hopefully he wouldn't even notice her. Perhaps he was too enraptured with his book? Almost to the dining hall, it was just a few more steps until—

"Nhiilaa?" the priest asking cautiously. Wonderful. The Nord let out an irritated grunt in response, but still refused to turn around to face him. A warm hand pressed itself onto her shoulder and spun her around. "Are you alright?" A mixture of embarrassment and anger flushed to her cheeks immediately as he asked this.

"I don't see why it should matter to you, _Sire_. Considering that I'm a stark raving lunatic kleptomaniac in concordance with your account," she said venomously, tears slightly welling up in her eyes. Apparently, this was not how he had expected her to react, because his face contorted into an expression of surprise and bewilderment.

"Is this what this is about? Nhiilaa, I'm—"

"I don't want to hear it, priest. Like you said, I'll not have much use of a priest, now would I?" the girl snapped before she turned and stomped off into the dining room, leaving a stunned Imperial in the wake of her rage.

In truth, her outburst had just made her feel worse. All the poor man was trying to do was console her, and she treated him like an animal. Living up to the commonly accepted view of her people, as her mother would say. Then she would probably have boxed her on the ears or sentenced her to practice the most _boring_ spell that she could think of only for the next week and a half. If her mother had still been here…

None of this would have ever happened. Nhiilaa noticed the tears rolling softly out of her eyes and onto her plate of bread and cheese, and wiped them away quickly. Unconsciously, her hand moved to the necklace that she always wore underneath her clothing, this time pulling it out and studying it. It was the same as always: a silver dragon, wings outspread and a large garnet cradled in its tail, with a fierce and proud look upon its face. The pendant itself wasn't a particularly large thing, but it was a significant piece all the same. It had been a gift from her father to her mother, and later from her father to her upon her mother's death, and his mother had given to him when she had died. Ingar insisted that there was no enchantment on it, but every time she slipped it around her neck, she felt closer to her departed mother. That was enough for her.

For now, at least.

What would her mother do in a situation such as this? Well, first of all she wouldn't have lost the damn Amulet, that's for sure. Even if she had lost the thing, she wouldn't have been sitting around feeling sorry for herself because she messed up unwittingly. If anything, Hjotra would have gotten up and done whatever it took to repair the situation. And that was just what her daughter was about to do.

--

A knock came from the other side of the screen door of Jauffre's small room in the living quarters of Cloud Ruler Temple. The old monk opened his eyes with a groan; it was too early in the morning for anyone to properly be calling on him, and he was tempted to just roll over and fall back asleep and ignore his caller. But, it might have been an emergency, so he most likely needed to attend to his visitor.

He was getting too damn old to be doing this. His ancient bones let out a tiny creak with effort as he pulled himself up from his bedroll on the floor. While his _youthful_ lord and Emperor got to sleep in a princely suite, the old codger was stuck to make to with hard floorboards. The knocking grew louder and more urgent as the Imperial neared the door.

"I'm coming," he grumbled while he slid open the door. One of the Blades, Cyrus, by the looks of it, stood in the doorway, a letter in one hand, helmet tucked under the arm of the free hand.

"Letter from Baurus, sir," the Blade announced formally before handing off the letter to the Grandmaster. Jauffre thanked the young man and slipped the door back into its original position; that was, closed. The aged man lowered himself into the chair placed by his desk, moved over his battered copy of _Mixed Unit Tactics_ and lit a candle. Light flooded the cramped chamber, allowing for Jauffre to find a small dagger to peel back the wax seal that held the letter shut. No evidence of previous tampering. That was a good sign. Once his worn eyes adjusted to the new light, he began to read the letter.

'_Grandmaster,_

_Not everything is going according to plan. I think my cover has been compromised and am being followed. Help would be greatly appreciated, and preferably sooner rather than later. Currently, I am staying at Luther Broad's Boarding House in the Elven Gardens District of the Imperial City._

_Baurus_'

A wordier letter than Jauffre would have liked, considering that if it had been compromised the idiot might have very well been killed. He made a mental note to never send Baurus onto another covert mission that required secrecy. In any case, he would indeed need help, but who to send? Surely he couldn't send one of the Blades stationed here at Cloud Ruler; they were becoming sparsely staffed as it was, despite the new Blade sister, the Nord girl. Jauffre quickly tucked in his chair and knelt on his knees in prayer. Talos would surely give him the answer.

--

The answer came about an hour later. Another heavy knock came at the door, but this time, Jauffre was not grumbling as he answered it. Nhiilaa stood in the doorway, in her usual dress. This was a relief, as it proved that at least one Blade did own a decent set of clothing, even if it was only one set. Even if it did tend to make her look fairly… masculine, but that wasn't the point. The girl cleared her throat as she got ready to speak.

"Allow me to guess why you are here this early in the morning," the monk said with just a hint of a smile. "You wish to know what we are doing to retrieve the Amulet of Kings. Am I correct?" A weak nod told him that he was. "Early this morning I received a letter from Baurus requesting assistance in ascertaining information on the whereabouts of the Amulet. I'm afraid I don't know all the details, but I do know that he is staying at Luther Broad's Boarding House in the Imperial City. I trust you can handle this duty?"

"Of course, I shall depart immediately," she said, giving a quick bow in reverence before turning to walk down the hall and out into the cold. The Nord repressed a laugh to see a pair of shivering Blades attempting to duel in the courtyard, but were obviously far too cold to do so. They would never survive in Skyrim if they thought that _this _was cold.

The sound of braying of an irritated horse broke the eerie silence. Blood ran cold; she would know that sound anywhere. Someone was making her horse _very_ angry. All thoughts of the weather aside, the girl broke into a dash towards the small stables where she had lodged her horse.

Inside was _another_ Imperial man, who was attempting to pacify the angered beast and was, apparently_,_ trying to feed Morihaus a carrot and most likely brush him, for he had a large brush in his other hand. Relief flooded her system as she saw the man struggle with the horse. Quickly, she placed a hand on the horse's neck and turned his giant head to look at her.

"No, you don't do that," she scolded between giggles. The Imperial looked on bewilderedly as the horse _immediately_ calmed himself and began to sniff the girl. The horse was obviously happy to see the Nord, because then he whinnied, which startled the Imperial. He jumped back from the massive creature, which in turn sent the Nord girl into another fit of giggling.

"Oh har har, I'm sure it's very amusing. I'll have you know that creature could've killed me!" he practically shouted. To his distaste, the girl shook her head and just grabbed the carrot out of his hand and proceeded to feed it to the animal.

"Well, yes, that's true. But he wouldn't have. The only person he's ever actually bitten was a total and complete twit and deserved it. Morihaus is not used to anyone trying to feed him carrots but me. In all truths, he doesn't even _like_ carrots," the girl said after she snatched the brush from his hand as well.

"How can you _tell_?"

"Well, he obviously didn't want to eat it when _you_ gave it to him," she giggled. "I don't believe we've met. I am Nhiilaa Ijorta, and this is my horse Morihaus." Nhiilaa held out her hand for the man to shake. Now that she got a good look at him, he wasn't much of a man, either. In concordance with his race, he was quite a bit shorter, and his face was fairly youthful. He turned his head upward to look her in the eyes, his were a sort of honey brown, and held out his own hand. Evidently he hadn't been working in the stables long, for all of the horses appeared to be discontented with his presence and were not at all used to him being around them.

"James Peleius," he said with mock confidence and quickly brushed back a piece of his brown hair with his free hand. Nhiilaa began to brush the horse's mane as he contentedly munched on the carrot. "Are you absolutely positive it doesn't like carrots?"

"Firstly, Morihaus is a _he_, not an _it_. And secondly, yes, I'm positive," quipped Nhiilaa.

"Fine. How can you tell that _he_ doesn't like carrots? He seems perfectly content to eat them now," James said, exacerbated.

"Because he's hungry. Usually he won't even eat them. He much prefers lettuce." Nhiilaa was disappointed in the way Morihaus' saddle had been secured; she'd have to redo it. With a sigh, she undid the buckle and slid off the saddle. "Did you do this?" she asked as she proceeded to fix it.

"Yes, I did. Is there anything wrong?" he asked nervously.

"Nothing that can't be readjusted," she said distractedly and buckled the saddle into its appropriate place.

--

White Gold Tower loomed overhead as Nhiilaa entered the Elven Gardens District. According to the guards, who had been rather… snippety, Luther Broad's Boarding House lay almost next to the King and Queen Tavern. The door to the establishment opened silently to the dark interior of the boarding house. A strong scent of stale mead and old cheese greeted her at the entry-way, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the light until she could see the Redguard, Baurus, sitting at the bar in the empty cantina. He turned toward her, his own eyes flicking quickly to the seat next to him.

"See the man in the corner?" he whispered almost inaudibly. Nhiilaa straightened up and raised her finger so that she could request some stew, and in the corner of her eye she could just see an Imperial man _glaring_ at Baurus intensely. Odd that she hadn't noticed him before, but it had been dark. The stew was placed in front of her and she took the spoon, nodding in half-thanks to Luther and half-recognition to Baurus' question.

"When I get up, he's going to follow me. I need you to wait a moment or so and then follow him," the Redguard muttered. Another short nod. A minute or so passed until Baurus pushed himself from his stool and made a bee-line for a small wooden door, presumably to the cellar. Almost as soon as the door was shut behind him, the Imperial in the corner slinked off to follow him. The lock clicked shut and Nhiilaa breathed to herself softly to count off approximately five to six seconds before she too joined the party in the basement.

Not wanting the mysterious stalker to become aware of her presence, she pulled the door softly behind her and placed a hand on the hilt of a dagger that she kept in the side of her boot. It came out of its resting place with a light hiss, though not a very noticeable one. At least, she hoped it wasn't noticeable.

A few paces ahead she could hear the man's muffled footsteps. Without trying to move too much, the lass stuck her head around the corner. Baurus stood with his back to the Imperial, hand twitching in preparation to grab the handle of the sword at his belt. Nhiilaa took in a deep breath and stepped forward.

Unfortunately for her, the rodents of the establishment did not decide to assist her in her effort in creeping along the wall. As she stepped out into the faint light, a small rat scurried around her ankles. Of course, it was rather small, but it was a rat.

Nhiilaa hated rats.

The Nord let out a loud sort of _squeak_ in fear, kicking at the rat in panic. The man whirled around to see the frightened girl brandishing her dagger at the rodent, and all Baurus could do was look on in shock. Wonderful assistance, really. Conjured armor appeared on his body and a mace materialized in the man's hand as he brought it down toward Nhiilaa's head. The girl looked up into the face of her murderer, and she saw the cold-hearted flicker of absolute vileness in his eyes and she knew that it was over.

'What a way to end it,' she thought as she faced death's cold doorstep. Time seemed to slow down as the weapon loomed into her vision and prepared to collide with her skull. Her only regret was that her father would have to bury her too…

Suddenly, a loud shout came from behind her assailant, and Baurus appeared on her sight as he wrenched the man's mace-wielding arm back from her face. Instinct took over, and she hopped to her feet, casting the dirk aside. Her skill lay with the long blade, and so she pulled Arpenalatta from its sheath and moved to defend herself. In one hand she grasped the man by the helmet, and the other held her blade in preparation to strike. Baurus was busily fending off the man's attempts at swings; ill-executed attempts, but with the speed that he was flailing, if it had collided with either Nhiilaa or Baurus' unprotected appendages could quite possibly do irreparable damage.

It was time to end this ridiculousness. With a cry of anger, the Nord plunged her blade into the cavity between the attacker's helm and cuirass. She shoved the sword through to the left, leaving the head of the man attached to his body by only a small flap of flesh. Armor disappeared in a puff of smoke, as it always would, she assumed, and she knelt down and wiped the sword's blade free of blood on his shirt.

"You would think just a hello would have sufficed," she remarked to Baurus as blood pooled from the corpse.

"You would think," he agreed.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note; So umm... Yeah. This is kinda just a little bit late. ... Noooo I didn't replace my blood with pokemon... That's just silly. shifty eyes_

"Now where the devil did that rat go?" whispered the Nord. Baurus lifted the body of the assassin, his skull hanging precariously from such a small flap of skin, into a barrel nested in a particularly dark corner of the cellar, which, until very recently, was full to the brim with heads of lettuce. Those very heads now lay strewn all over the floor in a disheveled mess, and one rolled from its landing point to hit the nervous Nord in the foot. She let out a startled cry, and thinking that it was the rat, took a half-step, half-leap backwards.

Now, in the dim light, she could see that it had just been a vegetable. Nhiilaa turned to her companion, a smile of relief on her face, and swept her hand upward to push back stray strands of hair from her eyes.

"Well, the good news is I think that the rat is de—What in Shor's name do you think you are doing!?" she cried as Baurus attempted to shove the hand of the corpse underneath the lid of the barrel. The Redguard did not look up from his task.

"We can't really leave a corpse in the middle of the floor..." It occurred to him that he didn't even know her name. He added a "girl" at the end of his sentence, if not only but to close the awkwardness of the sentence. She sighed deeply and muttered "am not a _girl_" underneath her breath.

"Isn't there some way that we could get rid of it without ruining Luther's stock of lettuce?"

"Unless you know an immolation spell, then no." And she didn't. Frost, yes. Lightning, yes. Fire, no. At least, not anymore. Finally, the elder Blade turned back to her and pointed at her feet. "What's that?" The girl looked down at where she stood as well and saw what he was pointing at: the blood pool encroaching on her boots.

"Well, Baurus, generally when you slash someone's head nearly off, blood tends to expel from their wounds and all over the ground. Then it generally pools on said ground and—"

"Not the blood pool, you twit; the book," he snapped angrily.

"… I knew that. I was erm… just testing to see if you knew that," coughed Nhiilaa, embarrassed. Before the blood pool could stain its cover, the Nord snatched up the tome and held it underneath the torchlight for the maximum lighting capabilities. The front cover was written entirely in daedric lettering, which glowered up menacingly at her. After a moment of internal translation, she knew that the title read as such:

DAGON

A few paragraphs in and she found the name of the author of the book, one Mankar Camoran. "Well it's _definitely _acult writing," she said absentmindedly. Baurus peered over her should to have a look at the volume. "A very… fanatical one, I would assume. You know who this Makar Camoran is, per chance?"

"Not a clue. We could try the Mages Guild. I hear that they have an expert on Daedric cults named—"

"Tar-Meena. She's the matron of the Mystic Archives," Nhiilaa finished. "She'll most likely know." The book snapped shut with a sharp sound and was carefully tucked into her back, and it fit snugly next to the bible from Hackdirt. "I suppose that we'll have to pay her a visit."

"We?" the Redguard asked, confused.

"Yes, we. If you think I'm about to let you go off and do whatever you want and leave me to do all the work while you let Jauffre give you the credit, you've another thing coming. You're coming with me to the Arcane University because it was your idea, alright?" He let out a sigh.

"I suppose. We should hurry then," said Baurus as he followed the Nord out of the cellar. Luther Broad looked at them curiously before he decided that it was not worth it to go down to the cellar to see what had occurred.

Some things were just better left unsaid, after all. Such as leaving corpses of assassins in the publican's basement.

--

_It had not been the easiest of days in Hjotra's life. If Nhiilaa wasn't getting into one thing, she was tormenting some poor scholar or student of the University, or attempting to show the poor people at the dormitories the butterfly she froze in midair. Hjotra had been invited to the University on a consultation for some Alyeid artifact that Raminus Polus' team had discovered, being the Alyeid scholar of the Anvil chapter, and for most of the guild save a few other people. Her husband had been away scrounging through some ruin for treasures before a team from Anvil was sent in to study the writings and engravings on the walls. Naturally, she couldn't have left her child with Nehweim; the man had two sons who loved to torment her ceaselessly, and she didn't want for the young girl to neglect her lessons for that week._

_She was beginning to think that a week with her relentless cousins would have done her more good than this trip to the University._

_The girl had nearly scared Renald Viernis to death when she decided to practice her chameleon spell in front of him and made half her arm disappear, and Delmar had chased the child out of the Chironasium for nearly destroying one of the novice mage's staves. In a word, this day had been all but intolerable._

_That is, until they had arrived at the Mystic Archives. Upon the sight of all the splendorous books at her disposal, Nhiilaa had immediately calmed down. Finally, something that would entertain the girl and not cause mayhem and danger for all._

_Now, her daughter was curled up in her mother's lap, asleep and book in hand. Hjotra tilted her head so that she could see the title of the book clutched by her daughter so tightly. 'The Third Door'. A _very _odd choice, indeed._

_--_

The tall white building that served as the lobby for the Arcane University loomed over the pair coldly, and the over-cast skies gave the whole scene a sort of gloomy effect. Only their footsteps broke the silence.

Suddenly the Nord stopped and cleared her throat. "There's ah… something you should know," she said quietly, so not to attract the attention of the battlemages on their rounds. The tone of her voice worried Baurus.

"And that is?" he questioned in an equally quiet tone.

"I'm not exactly a _full-fledged_ mage."

"So? Neither'm I."

"That being said… you should also know that almost everyone in that building has met me at some time, given that they have been there for the past ten years. If Tar-Meena is where I think she is, then it may become just a _little_ difficult to sneak through properly."

"… Where do you think she is?" He had been right to worry.

"The Archives. It's doubtful that she'd be in the lobby. I wouldn't be _too_ nervous. No one there's seen me let alone talked to me in those ten years, unless they're an Arena fan, and I doubt that they are. Too busy with their work and whatnot," laughed the Nord cautiously. For someone who was warning against becoming too fretful, she was acting awfully fidgety herself.

"Well, if that's the case, how exactly do you plan on sneaking into the Archives in the first place?"

"That's the easy part… sort of. I still have a Mages Guild key, you see, and it's one that my moth… that my mother left in the house before she... anyway, I have a key," she said. Baurus noted that her voice was now a little shaky; presumably due to the topic of her mother. Why it would make her uncomfortable to talk about was beyond him, and frankly none of his business, so he didn't bother to push the subject and his luck.

"So you're saying we can get in with no problems?"

"That's right. It's wandering around the premise undaunted; that's slightly a problem, but I don't think it will be _too_ much of one, unless the Arch-mage decides to come down from his tower. Then it's a problem." This piqued his curiosity.

"You know the Arch-mage? You _know_ Hannibal Traven?" Baurus was more than a little surprised.

"He was my Illusions and Mystism tutor in Anvil," rushed the Nord. At that, the Redguard stopped in his tracks.

"Your _tutor_?" he gaped.

"Is that really such a shock? Nords can perform spells as well as any Imperial, and certainly as well as any Redguard. I'll have you know that—"

"That's not what I meant," Baurus quickly interrupted. "What I meant was that, ah, such a prestigious mage was your tutor? I didn't think he taught the arcane arts to anyone." The look that she gave him as he finished attempting to smooth over the conversation was one of up-most disinterest in the meaning of his words.

"Well what did you expect him to do? Sit on his duff all day and knit tea cozies with a telekinesis spell?" A sarcastic smirk lit up her face. "Either way, it would not be a good thing to be caught, especially by the Arch-mage. I would never hear the end of it." And with that, the Nord shoved open the door loudly, a grin of amusement and mischief plastered on her pale face.

--

"_Mama, this is boring. Do I have to wear this dress? It's so uncomfortable," whined Nhiilaa as her mother tugged her by the hand through the doors of the Arcane University._

"_Those are robes, Nhiilaa, not a dress, and yes, you do have to wear them. They're _required_," an unhappy Hjotra hissed in her daughter's ear._

"_Well I don't like them." Hjotra sighed for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Frankly, Hjotra didn't like the robes in particular either: they were itchy and warm and made of a fabric that made her sneeze terribly, but, it was one of those things that she just had to take with a grain of salt. Nhiilaa's insufferable whining wasn't helping the situation much, either. _

"_Ah, Hjotra, how good of you to be prompt with your visit," announced a voice from the telepad linking the Arch-mage's lobby to the ground floor. From a flash of light, an surly looking Altmer woman stepped toward mother and daughter._

"_Caranya, it's marvelous to see you again," the Nord woman said as a smile spread across her lips. Indeed it _wasn't_ marvelous to see the Altmer; Hjotra thought she was a blow hard who needed to be hit in the face with a mallet of some sort, but seeing as the woman was on the Council of Mages, she couldn't very well voice that opinion aloud. Instead, she was forced to grin and bear it and keep her thoughts to herself, especially in the present company._

"_And is this the little one you told us so much about?" The Altmer stooped down to the small Nord girl's level, grabbed her chin and sneered. "I take it she too has your proclivity to the arcane?"_

"_Of course," replied her mother tartly. Caranya's gaze did not falter from the child._

"_Pity. We could've used more talented mages." Anger flushed in Hjotra's cheeks; she'd walked right into that one. Almost in synchronization with her mother's embarrassment, Nhiilaa's cheeks puffed up in response. The girl placed her hands on her little hips and stamped her foot in a huff._

"_I can assure you, Caranya, my daughter is a more than competent mage when she puts her mind to it."_

"_Oh? And if you don't mind me asking, Hjotra, how often is that? Forgive my observations, for they are nothing but that, but your daughter doesn't seem like the most studious sort. From what my dear sister, Carahil, tells me, she's quite the opposite. What was the word she used in her last letter? Lackadaisical? Or was it just plain lazy?" The sneer on Caranya's face as she stood up to face the child's mother was wearing on her patience. The two women stood eye to eye, toe to toe, and appeared to be nearly at blows._

_Suddenly smoke plumed from the floor, and Hjotra looked down. Her gaze returned to the Altmer's face, sickly smirk still embellished on her ugly face._

"_Caranya, your dress seems to be on fire," she said with a grin of her own. In horror, the mer looked down to see the young Nord placing tiny sparks of flame artistically on the hem of her dress. With a shriek, Caranya batted the child away and attempted to douse the flames with her heel._

"_You terrible little mongrel! I'll have your head!" caterwauled the enraged Altmer._

_This was one of those rare moments when Nhiilaa decided to apply herself to her studies, it would seem._

_--_

After a moment of thought, Nhiilaa turned to her companion and stopped in front of the doors of the Mystic Archives.

"On second thought, Baurus," said the girl. "It would also be very, very bad if Caranya saw us. Most likely worse than Traven."

"What did you—" he started.

"Nevermind that. Just… if you see any surly looking Altmer, uh… Well, run," interrupted Nhiilaa. Before he could ask as to why they were to run from the mer, she opened the door quickly and stepped inside.

He wasn't quite sure he wanted to find out, actually.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: Yeah. I know this is several months behind, but school has pretty much replaced my life. The good news is, I've devised a semi-sort of schedule, and should be on about a two week update time-table. Let's see how long that lasts, haha. Anyway, not one of my better chapters, but I've been on sort of a dry spell, and I'll probably edit the crap out of this once this thing's all said and done. It's not much of a comeback, but I'm okay with it, and I'll get back in the swing of things soon hopefully._

The Mages Guild was anything but politically unified, being everyone conspired to usurp everyone else's place in the guild, the Arcane University being the best example of such sort of behavior. If someone wasn't being plotted against, it was an odd thing. The one thing that every single Guild Hall had in common with the other ones is this: They all reeked of the heavy scent of too much magicka. To one who was not accustomed to such a compressing aroma, the mere act of walking into the lobby would give one an abominable headache.

Baurus' temples ached painfully as he waited for his companion to find the key that she _said_ that she had brought with her. After five minutes of searching through her pack's pockets for the little piece of metal, he was beginning to become doubtful.

"Couldn't you just use a spell on it? Don't you mage types know those sorts of things?" he asked quietly, not risking a tone above a whisper.

"Like even Hannibal Traven would be irresponsible enough to teach a twelve-year-old those sorts of spells," she scoffed. "Besides, I'm not 'one of those mage types.' I can perform all of two or three schools of magic somewhat proficiently now, and even then I'd still make a fool of myself around a real mage. I was—" She stopped herself. "—am an Arena fighter, not a mage."

"I thought you said you grew up in the Guild!" She stopped looking and turned her gaze to the Redguard.

"Just because I spent six years in their tutorage doesn't make me at _all_ knowledgeable about the arcane. I know as many spells as I was permitted to learn, and let's just say the school of alteration wasn't strictly on the curriculum," she whispered angrily, and went back to digging through her bags. "Even if I _did_ know those spells, these doors have their own counter-spells to prevent people like us from getting in. Charms, alarms, and most likely some sort of destruction spell. In other words, the works. We'd alert the entire building of our presence and never get past the door before we were arrested or executed." Baurus looked at her in frustration.

"You could have just said that in the first place."

"I thought it was implied, seeing as this is a Guild stronghold. At least it was the last time I checked." Silence. "Found it!" she muttered as she shoved the key roughly into the lock. A moment later, and the door opened quietly, light flooding the room. The pair stepped out into the sunlight, happy to be away from the watchful eyes of Raminus Polus and Bothiel in the lobby.

"So where are these Mystic Archives you mentioned?" Baurus murmured quietly to Nhiilaa. Instead of speaking aloud, she tilted her head to the right a bit and walked quickly in that direction. Every so often she would nod toward some robed person and mutter a 'Good day, fellow magister'. Must've been some sort of traditional greeting between the mages. He just kept his head forward and nodded when she did. Best not to look _too_ much like an outsider, he supposed.

Nhiilaa stopped abruptly in front of a large wooden door. "This is it," she said. How she could tell was beyond him; after all, it looked like every other doorway in this gods-accursed rotunda. This door opened loudly, and the interior of the building smelled of thousand-year-old dust and mold. It was a momentary relief from the reek of magicka overuse, thankfully. Their eyes adjusted to the light shortly after stepping into the room. Baurus looked around, but saw no one.

"Are you sure this is the—"

"Yes, I'm sure," she interrupted. "She'd be upstairs. With the books." With that, she dashed up the stone staircase and opened the door, Baurus at her heels.

An Argonian woman, older, he presumed, though he could never tell age with them, sat at a small, rounded table underneath a window, book in hand. The woman didn't seem to have notice their entrance; if she did, she did not acknowledge their presence in her sanctum. It took a small cough from the Nord to attract any sort of attention from her. She sighed; clearly annoyed at having her book interrupted, and looked up at Nhiilaa. Upon the sight of the girl, her expression turned from annoyance to something else, presumably some sort of happiness.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? One Nhiilaa Ijorta, perhaps?" the lizard spoke softly, as if not to disturb the dust of the Archives.

"It's nice to see you too, Tar-Meena," the Nord said, feigning actual joy. In fact, she was far from joyful, and actually rather annoyed that she had to come back here, of all places.

"I assume that you're here because of something important?"

"Of course. How much do you know about a daedric cult headed by someone named Mankar Camoran?" she said, trying the new name out of her tongue. The Argonian thought for a moment.

"I believe he's the leader of a cult called the Mythic Dawn. They worship Mehrunes Dagon. They're supposed to be very secretive. Where did you hear about this sect?"

"Found one of their books."

"Ah, the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes. Yes, it comes in four volumes, but I've only seen the first two."

"And just how would someone go about… finding this sect?"

"Supposedly it's some sort of initiation in itself. You need all four volumes for it, though." Tar-Meena's eyes took on a sort of _glitter_. "You can borrow the archives' copy of the second one, and Phintias was bragging about getting a copy of the third one in for some special customer. Unfortunately, I have no idea how you can get a hold of the last one," she said, standing. The lizardine woman crossed the room to a shelf and pulled a tome from it. Surprisingly, it looked new, no signs of age or deteriation.

"Be careful with it. You don't want to know the lengths I had to go to get it," she said with a wink, and placed the book in the amazed Nord's pale hands, who murmured a small thanks. The book was then promptly shoved into her bags, nestled right next to its twin.

The pair exited the archives, heads held high triumphantly. Several minutes of walking, briefly interrupted by that same dull greeting, and they neared the finish. Their escapade of infiltrating the Arcane University was nearly at the door to the outside of the lobby. They stepped back into the darkness, and made a beeline for their final destination.

"Well, well, well… what do we have here?" a shrill voice crooned maliciously. "A little lost Associate? Turn around, Associate. Let Caranya help you." Obediently, she turned around, much to Baurus' amazement. "Oh. It's _you_."

"Good morrow, fellow magister," she grumbled through gritted teeth.

"Though why they bother to call you a magister in the first place truly does boggle the mind, doesn't it?" The Nord tilted her head, her lip curling slightly into a sneer.

"I wouldn't know. Now if you'd excuse me, I'd like to—"

"You are not dismissed, Associate. Now… breaking into the Arcane University demands a—"

"Well you see, I wasn't particularly asking permission, just using that as more of a formality. Since you fail to understand simple civil courtesies, allow for me to explain. I'm leaving, and you can't stop me," Nhiilaa sniped, a grin on her face. She turned heel and, with Baurus following her nervously, strode out of the lobby triumphantly.

Caranya stood, her face petrified with confusion.

--

"What was all that?" Baurus growled, seemingly for the umpteenth time since they'd left the Arcane University.

"It was nothing," Nhiilaa snapped. Instinctively, her hand moved to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight that beat on their heads. Signs of the shops lining Market Street came into a clearer view. "Now where is the First Edition…?"

It was odd, to marvel at this place that she called a home arch-type for almost six years now… and she had no idea where anything was in this damn city. The sounds, the scents, the _people_; they looked on at her with some degree of recognition, some staring at her for a fraction too long, and yet, she could never say that she'd met them in her entire life. She found herself almost _missing_ the Bloodworks. At least that was familiar territory in this dreadful place.

Reality compounded in on itself: she was a stranger here.

"—did you hear me?" the Redguard's voice interrupted her train of thought, waking her from this stupor.

"Oh… sorry. What were you saying?"

"I said that I found a guard and got directions. Let's go." After casting one last disconcerted look at her surroundings, she took off in a brisk walk after her friend.

--

_Skyrim; the throat of the sky, land of the snow. And cold. Dreadful cold. It was, in a word, home. And now she had to leave all that she knew; Aunt Inga, Uncle Eifid, her cousins, her few friends, all because Uncle Newheim wanted to strike his fortune._

_She sat in the back of her father's wagon on a pile of blankets, curled in her mother's arms. Tears streamed down her face, freezing on contact with Bruma's cold air. It wasn't nearly cold enough. For being such a close range to Falkreath, Bruma might have been on another continent. Superficially, the climates were the same; snow, cold, and barren. To her, the weather was not nearly cold enough, the snow wasn't nearly pure enough, and there were too many trees._

_Even the air smelled different. Like too many people packed into one place. The gates of the walled city cracked open, and the girl sat up. Ijorta gazed at the buildings in wonder: they were constructed like her old home, but somehow… different. Like a convoluted rendition of it._

_Ingar helped his wife and daughter from the top of the cart. Small eyes peered around the sides, staring at the family in wonder. The girl walked around to the side and stared right back at the three smaller children: an Imperial, an Altmer, and a Khajiit. All races she'd never seen before._

_Ijorta, who once felt so small compared with her own people, suddenly realized that she was a giant amongst these tiny people._

_It was not a comfort._


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: Sorry about the update lapse. Now that I have a new laptop and finally have a word processor again, I can most likely keep up with my 2 week standard that I had initiated... almost a month ago. Anyways, onto the chapter..._

Something about this city had _changed_ her, Baurus knew it. It was something about how she held her head down, how people stared at her for just a fraction too long before they turned on their way. Almost as if she was a memory of the city, haunting it and its citizens. Whether that was a good or bad thing, well, he didn't know just yet. All he knew was that there was something going on, and she wasn't telling him what it was.

He decided not to push the issue.

–

It was as if the pulse of the city itself was out to destroy her. She could feel it calling to her, in her bones and in her marrow. The pain in her abdomen awoke from its dormancy as they walked toward the Market District, causing her to clutch at her stomach. "Damn it," she whispered as tears welled in her eyes from the agony.

"You alright?" Baurus asked. She looked up to notice that she was being stared at, not just by Baurus, but by several passerby. Their eyes were fixed on her in concern, but none moved to assist her.

"I'm fine. Just... just tired and sore from the ride. Let's keep moving," she managed to mutter through gritted teeth. Instead of averting her eyes, she straighted, but kept her hand pressed firmly against the scar that plagued her, and met the crowd's gaze with her own reassuring stare, or at least as much of one as she could bear. "Really, I'm fine."

"If you insist." The two kept on their path toward _The First Edition_. With every step came renewed pain, so much that she began to count the steps until the doorway just to take her mind off of the sensation that tore at her. There were only a few more until she reached the door...

–

There were generally two types of people that shopped at Phintias' store: regular customers and people who came for a specific book. Nearly they were always scholars, generally either mer or Imperial. He suspected this was due to the fact that the mer were generally hungry for knowledge and this was, despite the facade of unity that the Empire liked to portray, a predominantly Imperial city.

So rarely did a Nord walk into his store that when one finally did, accompanied with a Redguard no less, he didn't quite believe it. Perhaps it was just a tall Imperial woman, albeit pale and heavily built.

"May I help you?" he asked questioningly.

"We're looking for a book," the woman, no girl, said. Her accent was obviously Nordic. A Nord in his store was an odd enough occurrence. After all, they weren't particularly known for their intelligence.

"Obviously. What book?"

"_Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes, volume three._ By Mankar Camoran," Nhiilaa said. Phintias thought for a moment.

"Ah. _That_ book. It just so happens that I have a copy, but I'm afraid it's already been bought. A Bosmer had me order it, and should be picking it up soon," he said, a cold stare fixed on Nhiilaa. "You're welcome to wait for him, but I can't sell it to you."

"Thank you. We'll wait," the Redguard said. Quickly, he attempted to guide Nhiilaa to a bench in the corner of the shop. She shook his hands from her shoulders, but continued to walk to the seating on her own.

"I'm capable of walking, you know," she grumbled.

"Honestly, you don't look like you are," Baurus whispered back. With a wince of pain, she lowered herself onto the seat and attempted to relax. It was a trying effort, relaxation. With every breath came a fresh wave of pain, and hiding it took far more effort than she'd hoped. "Excuse me," Baurus called to Phintias. "When exactly is the other customer due here?" His query was met with another cold stare.

"Around midday. But who knows with travellers?" he commented dryly. They sat in silence for a while, Baurus not daring to ask Nhiilaa again if she were _truly _alright, Nhiilaa in turn attempting to mask the actual agony she was in, and Phintias not caring enough about their business to actually make conversation.

Moments passed under the guise as years, and finally Nhiilaa had enough of this 'waiting around pathetically' business.

"I'm going to take a walk," she said, pushing herself up from her seat.

"Are you sure--" Baurus started.

"Yes, I am sure. You need to stay here and wait for whoever has purchased that book and I need fresh air. So I am going to go for a walk, and you're going to get that book," she snapped, more than a little angrier than she had intended. And with that, she opened the door and stumbled out into the sunlight.

–

As she walked, the pain only got worse. It seemed that the longer that she was in this city, the magnitude of the torture increased tenfold. Luckily enough, the district that she aimed for was not too terribly far away. However, her mind wandered to take away thoughts of the pain, and those thoughts only led to previous events that she had wanted to leave in the past, where they belonged. This city was nothing but poison to her, and the longer she stayed here, the more drastic the toll would be taken on the remaining portions of what she liked to call a soul.

The familiar smells of the Bloodworks wafted closer as she forced the gate to the Arena District open, but somehow, it only brought more misery, not the comfort that she once knew. Immediately, she realized that coming here was a mistake, that there could be no actual closure. It was too late now. She had to keep moving. The doorman at the gates let her in without question, for this was as much her home as it was his. The door to the Bloodworks opened without much protest, and her eyes took a little longer than she remembered to adjust to the dark light.

On some level, there was a certain sense of serenity that took her now; the clashing of iron swords comforted her aching heart slightly, and the smells and sights were at least not too altered from her memories. A pang of guilt struck her as she saw where the Grey Prince once practiced, now empty, almost as if a void was overtaking the once sacred grounds.

Here was where she once belonged, amongst these fighters. She was their icon, their hero, at one point. Perhaps she still was. It was all she could do to hope that they wouldn't see her pain, that every step she took also came with great strife. To hope that they still saw her as how she once stood; proud, and strong. Not this broken shell she'd become so recently.

"My, my. You're a sight for sore eyes," a gruff voice resounded from some corner. She turned her head and smiled, genuinely this time, for she was glad to see him. "How are you, Nhiilaa?" Owyn said. She could see the concern in his eyes, that the question he asked was more loaded than listeners would interpret.

"I'm... in pain," she admitted, almost inaudible. With a nod of his head, he placed his hand on his shoulder and guided her to a semi-quiet corner of the Works. On the table lay unpolished, uncleaned, weaponry of all sorts and makes. A smile tugged on the corners of her mouth as she remembered all the times she spent cleaning these very same blades while cursing Owyn's name and his house.

"It's the scar, isn't it?" he said quietly as she sat in the exact same place she'd sat so many times before.

"I'm afraid so. It's been bothering me before, but today... when I walked through the gates and was here for a small while, it just hit me all of a sudden. I didn't know where else to go, so I came here." Nhiilaa produced a small bottle from some pocket of her bag and held it up. "Been a while since I had to turn to this damn thing." Without another word, she uncorked the bottle and took a small sip. An involuntary wince worked its way out as the vile fluid passed down into her throat.

"You sound like an old, world-weary traveler," Owyn said, only half-joking.

"I just wish I could have a year or so to myself. If it's not one thing... it's another," she sighed. A darkness clouded Owyn's eyes as he scrutinized Nhiilaa's face for a moment.

"This has something to do with the Emperor's murder, doesn't it?" he asked in a low gruff tone, denoting that what was about to pass with held in confidence. Nhiilaa straightened and looked over at the practicing swordsmen. "Well, doesn't it?"

"... Yes," she admitted. The effects of whatever was in that bottle seemed to be helping, at least a little, for she was no longer doubled-over in the extreme pain. "I can't... Owyn, you know I want to tell you. But I can't. It's... delicate."

"I understand," he said. "Just be careful, alright? Ysabel will have my head if our Grand Champion goes off and gets herself killed when she's tryin' to be a hero."

"I'm not trying to be a hero, Owyn. I wish the burden had passed me... but apparently the gods have seen to make it mine."

"Oh stop it," he snapped suddenly. "You sound like an old man, truly. You're young, Nhiilaa. Life has so much more time to be cruel to you, give the gods a little credit. If they truly hated you, you would know it. And I don't _care_ if 'your gods aren't my gods'. It's the same damn thing. Stop feelin' sorry for yourself and get your arse moving, girl." Nhiilaa's mouth fell agape; it'd been a while since Owyn had spoken to her in such a manner. She was about to snap back when she realized that he was right: she was being absolutely pathetic.

"Sorry," she mumbled quietly.

"Don't be sorry. Just do something. You're not the Grand Champion because you're a selfish prat. You're the Grand Champion because you did what had to be done. Think about it." He smiled softly. "Now I have maggots to train and orders to give. Go out and do what you came to do, Nhiilaa."

Owyn stood and pulled Nhiilaa to her feet. After gripping her in a tight hug, he walked off, leaving her to stand in the middle of the Bloodworks, alone with only her thoughts to keep her company.

–

_Her father didn't raise a quitter._

_She kept having to remind herself of this seemingly simple fact every day. At night, when her muscles screamed due to the torment of the training regimen that Owyn had put together for her to help her with her blade, it was all she could do to remind herself of this as she cried herself to sleep from the pain, and even the loneliness. During the day, between cleaning and training, she repeated this internal mantra when she just wanted to throw in the towel and head back to Anvil, to beg her father to take her back home, away from all these horrible people who judged her so quickly._

_So went her days in the Bloodworks. She'd lost track of individual dates long ago, but she estimated that she'd been here around four years. By her estimations, that put her around the age specified by Owyn that was the minimum age of competition in the Arena, instead of just scullery work._

_She was ready. After all, she'd come here to become the Grand Champion, and now that she was here, she couldn't leave until she'd done that. Papa would be proud of his hatchling, she was sure of it._

–

Baurus was still in _The First Edition_ when she returned. He shook his head at her quizzical look; apparently the buyer they'd waited for had yet to show. Nhiilaa sighed and wandered to the bookcases lining the walls of the shop opposing Phintias. She could almost hear him suck in his breath in horror as she pulled a book from the walls.

"Relax. I know how to handle a book. But if it calms your fears, I'll read my own," she sniped angrily and returned to her seat. With as much flourish and as showy as possible, Nhiilaa pulled out the bible she'd found in Hackdirt with Martin, along with the piece of paper she'd attempted to half-scribble the daedric lettering on, but instead of digging in her bag for a quill, she retrieved the nearly-broken piece of charcoal. Messy, yes, but it was worth it. She hated quills.

"You seem to be feeling better," Baurus remarked. She offered no response to neither the affirmative nor negative, merely concentrating on her work.

The door opened with a sharp sound, and a small person walked rather... nervously... into the shop. He glanced at the two people watching him curiously, but didn't give them a second thought. Instead, he headed straight to the counter and looked up at Phintias.

"Ah, yes, well hello. Erm... I ordered a rare book and traveled all the way from Valenwood to fetch it. My name is Gwinas. I trust my messenger reached you in the appropriate time?" the Bosmer asked, his voice squeaky and fluctuating with anticipation. Phintias looked down at him, an imposing figure to one so childlike and small like Gwinas.

"Ah, yes, Master Gwinas. I have your copy of the _Commentaries_ right here. Volume three, as you requested. As you can imagine, it was very difficult to find," Phintias said, his face adorned with a most disconcerting smile.

"O-of course. I trust two hundred will be an appropriate price?"

"Certainly. A pleasure doing business with you, Master Gwinas." The Redguard held out the tome to the wood elf, who took it and immediately hid it in the folds of his robes. With a nod of his head, Gwinas stumbled to leave the store and be about his business.

"That's him, then," Baurus said. Nhiilaa nodded, and immediately sprang up to follow the Bosmer. It wasn't a terribly difficult task, although for such a tiny thing, Gwinas was frightfully quick.

"Excuse me!" she called to him. Gwinas stopped in his tracks and spun around to face the seemingly giant Nord and her companion walking briskly toward him.

"Y-yes...? May I help you?" he stuttered, a hand gripping over where he had hidden the book.

"You may. That book you just bought, would it be alright if I bought it off of you? I'll pay, of course," she said with a smile. Baurus struggled to smile as well; paying two hundred septims was still a difficult concept to grasp, even if it was for the good of the empire.

"Erm, well, no. I've been looking for this book for a while, and--"

"Master... Gwinas, is it? My name is Nhiilaa. This is Baurus," she said. Baurus waved, attempting to be friendly and reassuring to the tiny creature. "The _Commentaries_ are the way to get to the Mythic Dawn, I trust you are aware of this, otherwise you would be wasting your time on such a book." She paused and noted Gwinas' reaction: as she had said this, he shook his head.

"No... I did not know that. I was just trying to study the cult and--"

"The Mythic Dawn murdered the emperor," she interrupted. A look of panic crossed Gwinas' now paling face.

"I... I didn't know. Honest! I just wanted to--"

"The way I see it, we need the book, and it is apparent that you no longer want the book. I would be happy to compensate you for half of the full price of the book--"

"No. No, you take it. I... I set up a meeting with one of their members. He called himself 'the Sponsor'. I just wanted to meet them..." Gwinas shoved a note into Nhiilaa's hands, along with the book.

"Thank you. Now, do you know where one may procure a copy of the fourth volume?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Please... just take the book far away from me. I don't want anything to do with that evil thing anymore," he stuttered, then turned and briskly walked away from the two. The two were left to stand there in silence, only able to stare at the fidgety little elf as he hopped away.

"... Well, that was easy," Baurus said, only after a long silence.

"It was a little... never mind," his Nordic companion said quietly. "Anyway, let's go back to Luther Broad's. I don't want to spend any more time than necessary near that stuck-up Redguard arse." Baurus let out a little laugh; at least she wasn't doubled over in pain any longer. Whatever was wrong seemed to have passed, which he supposed in the long run was a good thing.

–

"What the hell is this?" Nhiilaa asked as she stared at the note. It was on fine paper, with _very_ good calligraphy. "Whoever these people are, they have good tastes. It's a little flamboyant, come to think of it. A little... too tasteful. Ugh. Makes me sick."

"Could you please get to the actual contents of the note, instead of diagramming what fruity sissies these people are? I'm fairly certain that they're a little more manly than you're giving them credit for. They did plan an assassination and carry it through, you know," Baurus complained.

"Well you certainly couldn't tell by this paper! This is the most feminine damn missive I've ever seen in my entire life," she said, lifting the paper toward the window.

"Yes, yes, that's nice and all, but what does it _say_?" He attempted to snatch the note from her hands, but she turned away from him quickly.

"Oh, something about a swamp or the like. But _really_. What self-respecting villain writes in such a proper manner? 'Oh yes, I'm here to take over your empire! Fear my pretty handwriting and fancy-pants paper!' No one would respect that!"

"Nhiilaa!" He finally grasped the Nord firmly by her shoulders. "What about the sewers? Tell me what we have to do."

"Here. Read for yourself," she said, handing him the note.

"This says to go to the sewers, not a swamp," he said, almost relieved. At least it was in the Imperial City, not in Elswyer or Blackmarsh.

"Oh. Sorry to get your hopes up, then," she sniped. "... Wait. Sewers. With... rats?"

"Yeah. But you're used to that, _right_?" he asked, a slight sneer on his face.

"... Of course. I just don't like them." She turned towards the window, her back now facing him.

"Besides, you'll have to be more concerned with the goblins than the rats," he laughed.

That was not what she wanted to hear at all.


	14. Chapter 14

This was not how she had planned on spending her afternoon.

Not in this stink-trap, covered in filth and grime from the sewage they waded though. It was going to take weeks to get this junk out of her hair and clothing, and even longer for the smell to finally dissipate. _If_ it ever did. And apart from that, there'd been the _rats_. Creepy little rodents, staring at them with their beady little eyes in the darkness, occasionally being stupid enough to actually attack them. During those little spells, Nhiilaa tended to mysteriously fall behind, leaving the majority of the extermination to Baurus.

To be truthful, it was getting a little annoying.

"Ugh. What kind of self-respecting villain hides in a sewer, of all the damned places?" she asked _again_. Baurus rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Seems to me you said the exact same thing about the nice paper and calligraphy. First, whoever they are, they're far too feminine. Now you're not happy because they dwell in a sewer. Can there be nothing done to please you?" he replied, tired of her incessant whining.

"No," she stated simply. He sighed and held the torch higher to avoid the rising water level. "Just where are you taking us? You said you knew the place that was discussed in the note. Seems to me that we've been going in circles for a frightfully long time."

"It's just up ahead. If you can't stop whining like a child, you can always go back to Cloud Ruler and tell Jauffre yourself why you couldn't complete such a simple task as collecting a book, be my guest and go ahead. It'll get you out of my hair at least--"

"Hush." She stopped.

"Oh what now? You can't take the criticism? Well-" Nhiilaa shook her head.

"It's not that. There's a light over there and you just passed it," she said, pointing to the side.

"Oh. Well, that's it, then." A snide smirk crossed her face as they stepped out of the disgusting filth and onto the stonework. "Now, the note said to come alone. I think it would be best if I handled the Sponsor. There's a vantage point up the stairs and--"

"No," she interrupted. "I'll talk to the Sponsor."

"No offense, but you don't exactly have the best people skills from what I've seen, Nhiilaa," he said, skeptical of her motives. She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly intercepted. "And we can't kill the Sponsor just yet. They may be able to lead us to the main hive of the Mythic Dawn, and we'll be able to nip this in the bud. If we kill him, we won't be able to do that."

"So you expect me to just sit up there and watch the Sponsor..."

"And cover my ass if I need it. He may try to kill me. I don't know what's going to happen in there, and we need as good a plan as we can get right now, one that doesn't involve rushing in and cracking skulls. Understand?" Something changed in her face; she looked somewhat older as she straightened up and focused.

"Understood." Baurus opened the door and entered, leaving Nhiilaa to scale the stone staircase up to the vantage point that he'd spoken of.

It wasn't much of one; a stone bridge leading to the next gate which in turn connected to some other passageway. It was a little too... convenient. Almost as if this whole thing was planned from the beginning. She suddenly got the feeling that she was not supposed to be here.

Before she could warn Baurus of this, the gates below her opened with a sickening metallic sound. As quietly as she could, she slipped Arpenalatta from its sheath, hiding the glimmering blade in the shadows, along with herself. All she could see was the Sponsor as he entered the room, but as soon as he sat, he fell from her sight.

She could hear the voices below her, but could not quite make out what they were saying. By the tone of the voice, and the snide tone, she supposed it was an Altmer. That tone was one that she was all too familiar with; it was the very same one that Carahil, Caranya, and even that damned Suurootan had taken with her every single time she'd been subjugated to listen to their rants and raves when she made the mistake of being in a ten mile radius of them.

At least Baurus was still alive.

A shiver ran down her spine as two other voices joined the din, not from below, as expected, but from directly in front of her. She tilted her head up to see the torchlight reflecting off of the walls, illuminating the next passage. Although she could still hear Baurus and the Sponsor below, and knew that he was still alive, there was no way for her to communicate to him the oncoming danger without putting him in jeopardy.

"... Shit," she whispered as the gate opened. The two figures, both clad in the red garb worn by the assassins that killed the emperor, looked straight at her. For a moment, she thought that they were _smiling_, almost as if they were expecting her, that they knew that she was there the entire time.

Suddenly, they both let out a cry and armed themselves with the same puff of yellow mist. Time stood still as the assassins rushed toward her, maces raised above their head in preparation of the strike.

"Nhiilaa!" Baurus yelled from below. She looked down to see the Sponsor upturn the table and summon his own daedric armor. Baurus drew his own blade and lunged...

She spun away from the battle unfurling below her and turned her attention to her own attackers. Her lack of armor unnerved her, for while it allowed for more free range of motion, it also allowed her to be open to attacks that would have been normally deflected by her heavy raiment. That, and she had to find openings in their armor before they actually got to attack her, placing her at an extreme disadvantage.

With any luck, they would have no idea who they were fighting. They would have no idea that they now faced the Dragonheart, and while the Arena breed of sword play was far from elegant, it was rather useful when faced with a matter of self preservation. After all, that is what it was used for; survival.

Fortunately, the two assailants were poorly trained in the arts of the mace. Their flailing movements gave way for a multitude of attacks. But while their haphazard swings gave her some sense of advantage, it also put her in a very risky position; for every way she dodged an advance, there were hundreds of more ways to misplace a step and fall to the level below, most likely to be dismembered by this so-called Sponsor.

A thought struck her, and in a moment of desperation, she maneuvered slightly to catch her nearest opponent square in the chest with the hilt of her sword. The resulting impact knocked him backwards fell down to the ground below, landing with a horrible metallic clang. Now she just hoped that the armor didn't protect her assailant enough to allow him to live.

The other attacker ignored his fallen comrade and advanced hastily toward Nhiilaa. The Nord glared at her and walked toward her, an evil sort of look in her eyes. She raised her sword, hilt facing the agent, and with a loud yell, brought it down on his helmet, knocking him backwards. In his moments of disorientation, Nhiilaa grasped him by the helm, ignoring the sharp corners ripping into her hand. In a blur of motion, she sheathed Arpenalatta and placed her free hand on the other side of her attacker's head. With one twist, it was finished. The armor melted away, leaving the corpse to fall to the ground. The sound of breaking bones reverberated throughout the cavern.

"Hey!" Baurus' voice broke the quiet. "You alright up there?" Nhiilaa looked down at him; the Sponsor lay dead at his feet. She was right. He was an Altmer.

"A little cut up, but nothing major. You?"

"Took a blade to the shoulder. It'll probably leave a scar, but at least I'm alive, right?"

"I'll be down in a minute," she said and opened the door. Her leather boots made muffled sounds on the stone-work as she descended the staircase. Baurus wiped the last remnants of blood from his sword with the hem of his shirt and returned it to its sheath as she reentered the chamber. Blood, mainly the Sponsor's, she assumed, decorated the walls in a macabre manner, a trail leading up to Baurus' feet. He looked at her and shrugged, immediately wincing in pain from his injury.

"Here, let me help," she said and placed her hands on his wound. A blue glow emanated from her hands as she focused her energy on repairing the flesh. "You're in luck, it's not that bad of an injury. Just a minor gash. I've seen worse in the Are--- I've seen worse."

"What happened up there? I saw you up there, then some people, and before I knew it, that Altmer flips over the table and that strange armor materializes and--"

"It's conjured daedric armor," Nhiilaa said absentmindedly. "It disappears when the caster dies..." Something caught her attention. There was a corpse underneath the bridge: the agent she'd thrown off in the midst of the battle. There was something not quite right about it.

Perhaps it was the fact that they were breathing, or maybe because they were still dressed in the daedric armor they'd conjured.

"This makes it a good indicator of judging whether an opponent is either dead," she said, walking towards it, "or merely faking." Nhiilaa looked down at the assassin, his face hidden by his devilish helmet. "While daedric armor is amazingly strong and flexible at the same time, it has one fatal commonality with mortal-made armor." Deftly, Arpenalatta was removed from its sheath, the blade glimmering in the soft torchlight. "And that is, of course, that there is a gap between the helm and the cuirass." And the armor disappeared in that tell-tale yellow smoke...

"... Fascinating. I've got the book, in case you care," Baurus said, more than a little disturbed by the scene that had just unfolded in front of him.

"Good. Let's get out of here, though. I can't stand this stink any longer." But instead of walking forward, she took a moment to look at her bloodied palms. Large rents had been torn into them, but she lacked the energy to heal the wounds.

–

"Sweet, sweet freedom!" Nhiilaa exclaimed as she hauled herself out of the sewer grate. Her companion let out a small laugh and offered her a hand to help her up, which she took.

"Now you've got all the books. I'm going to return to Cloud Ruler and see if Jauffre needs my help doing something else," he commented, hoping she'd ignore the last part.

"You can't leave me all alone to figure this out on my own. You--"

"Nhiilaa, I can't stay. I have other duties that I need to attend to. I'm sure you can find the Amulet on your own. Besides, you're probably going to have to infiltrate their headquarters, and that's easier to do when you're by yourself. The two of us'd look odd, and they'd get suspicious. Think about it." She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it almost as quickly. He was right, of course. Blowing their cover was the last thing that they needed now, and they needed to get the Amulet back before the main body realized that the Sponsor and his lackeys had been killed.

"Alright," she grumbled begrudgingly. She remembered Martin, and how she'd treated him. "... Tell Martin I'm sorry. He'll know what it means." In avoidance of answering any questions, she placed her hand on Arpenalatta and quickly headed for Luther Broad's. Baurus shrugged, and headed out toward the city gates.

–

Back at the relative comfort of the tavern, Nhiilaa stared at the books in front of her on the table. The bath she'd taken had removed most of the stink of the sewers, but still had not cleared her mind on the day's events. Worse yet, she could feel the pain returning, and she was running dangerously thin on that blessed potion that she'd come to love. She sighed, unable to concentrate on the tomes' hidden secrets, or on the Mythic Dawn, or whatever impending crisis was on the horizon.

The door creaked in protest as she opened it and walked down the stairs. The din of the bar was irritating, and several drunks attempted to block her passage, but she set them down gently and left, stepping out into the coolness of the City night.

At night, no stares lingered on her face as she passed, mainly because everyone that would recognize her were presumably either too drunk to notice her or busily sleeping their lives away. That was just the way she wanted it right now: to be nothing more than a shadow passing through. Her boots made sounds that reverberated in the empty streets, drawing attention to her by the guards. Whatever they thought that she was up to they must of ignored, because they left her alone for the most part, only speaking to her to bid her a fair night.

When she got to her destination, the loud noises stopped. She was no longer plagued by the too loud noises of her shoes, but was comforted slightly by the soft, earthen sounds they now made. Despite all the poverty, she'd always thought that the Waterfront had looked rather serene at night, how the twin moons reflected off the Rumare. You didn't get this lovely scenery inside the walls of the City, and in that respect, the poor were far richer than all the nobles of the City.

Nhiilaa was surprised to see that the house was still uninhabited. It wasn't in terribly good shape, for there were a few more patches missing in the thatched roof than the last time she'd been here. It seemed a lifetime ago, when in reality it hadn't been. Sadly, it was growing faster and faster into a memory, old wounds healing and scars forming over where there'd been clean skin.

She stepped inside the rubble, the scent of blood that'd been so pungent was now long faded, though the pools of blood had dried to the earth in dark splotches. A glimmer in the moonlight caught her attention. The urn...

With the uttermost carefulness, she picked it up. There were still slight remnants of Perinea's ashes inside. A tear rolled down Nhiilaa's cheek as she thought of her friend's smiling face, and how it'd been cut short far before her time.

"Well, I'm here," she said to the urn. "You would be surprised at me, Peri. I got arrested, for assault none the less. It's led to some things that I suppose I can't control. Agronak's dead, so hopefully you'll be able to rest easy now... Sorry, but I had to do it... I had to. You understand, hopefully." More tears fell from her eyes. "Anyway, you'll like this. I met someone... His name's Martin. It's not like _that_, you know. He's much too whiny, and far too priestly anyway. I could never stand them, honestly. He's different than the other ones, somehow. Lost his faith, it seems. You'd like him though. He's nice enough, I suppose, and you always went for that type."

Nhiilaa set the urn on the table and stood. "I... I have to go now... Things to do. It's actually important though. There's this... I suppose you could call it a code... in this set of books. I'm supposed to figure it out somehow, but I haven't the damnedest about how to go about doing it. You were always better at that sort of thing than me, anyway. Made me sort of jealous, really. I-- I really miss you, Peri. I guess it's a little late for this sort of thing, anyway."

And that was that.

Nhiilaa left, rushed at first, running toward the one place she thought she'd be welcome. But... something felt odd. She stopped.

The Bloodworks was not where she needed to go. Somewhere inside, she knew this. To return there would be what she always did. She would just be running away, away from responsibility, away from everything she needed to do.

Running away was no longer an option. It was cowardly. Thinking of Perinea reminded her of this, because Perinea wouldn't have run. She'd fought until the end.

Nhiilaa knew what she had to do. She changed her direction and headed back to the boarding house. Her gaze fixed on the _Commentaries _as soon as she entered the room. It was time to accept her duty, and to finally fight back.

Suddenly, the world didn't seem so large and daunting anymore.


	15. Chapter 15

"What is the use of a code that only a few people would be able to figure it out?" Nhiilaa complained.

"To weed out the undesirables, I suppose," Tar-Meena said with a sigh. The Nord girl had snuck into the Mystic Archives _again_ seeking her aid, this time somehow avoiding Caranya's vigilant watch from her perch the Arch-Mage's personal lobby, and had done nothing but whine the entire time. Some things, they seemed, really never did change.

"Well that's just dumb. What if there's a complete idiot willing to throw his life away for the good of the cult, but he's too _stupid_ to figure out how to find the damn place?" Tar-Meena refused to play into her little game for once, and instead opted for silence. "They make a reference to Mehrune's Razor... Where was that thing supposed to be hidden?"

"Some deserted underground city... Sundersomething-or-other... It's probably just a rumor though and can't be trusted. There's a missing 'I' in the word Nirn... Perhaps we should look at the other capitalized words for other misspellings. The letters might spell out a--"

"We threw out that idea two hours ago, remember? You said that and then we went throughout all the texts and realized that he's just crazy."

"Oh... you're right, I remember now. What does the lettering in the beginning of each volume say?"

"Doesn't matter. That phrase wouldn't make for a good clue unless the reader could read both the daedric alphabet and Alyeid, and you can't count on that. Besides, it's too long to be the name of a landmark or ruin." A thought struck the Argonian suddenly.

"What if it's simpler than we're making it? What if they were trying to make it so that even the fools who wanted to find it earnestly could?" The Nord straightened up in her chair.

"Like what? You're thinking something outside the actual context of the writing?" she asked, looking over Tar-Meena's shoulder at the book.

"That's what I'm thinking. Look, how the first letter of each paragraph is done in such fancy script. I overlooked it before because--"

"Because this Camoran person seems to have a flair for the flamboyant, that's why I ignored it. I thought he was just trying to prove that he's the effeminate leader of a cult full of ninnies with pretty handwriting, so..." She stopped, as Tar-Meena gave her a look of confusion. "Oh. The missive given to the Bosmer we talked into giving up the third volume was the most ridiculously girly thing I've seen in my entire life. Nice paper and calligraphy and the like."

"... Alright... but what if it's not him being... flamboyant? What if he's trying to send his anchorites a message? Quick, get me a quill and ink," she said. Nhiilaa did as she was instructed, and Tar-Meena began to scribble furiously on a free sheet of paper. "Ah, that makes sense," she declared triumphantly.

"What?" Nhiilaa asked, snatching the paper. '_GREEN EMPEROR WAY WHERE TOWER TOUCHES MIDDAY SUN_.' "Oh. Well, that's not secretive at all."

"I'll bet that if you find this location, you'll find the Mythic Dawn's location," Tar-Meena said. Apparently, the Argonian was rather pleased with this work, because she was smirking to herself, or rather, as much as an Argonian _could_ smirk. Then again, they always looked like that, Nhiilaa thought.

"Thank you, Tar-Meena," she said, moving towards the door.

"Don't let Caranya catch you!" the scholar said as the young girl left. "... Again."

The door to the Arch-mage's lobby opened without a sound this time, allowing for Nhiilaa to somewhat-sneak in past Raminus Polus. She was almost to the door...

"Wait! You there, Nord! Stop!" a voice called behind her. Nhiilaa turned to face an Imperial man, young, by the looks of it. "Are you a member of the Mage's Guild?" By his emerald green robes, she knew that he was at least a novice in the University, most likely attempting to find someone to seek knowledge from. She was certain she'd never met this person before, and yet, somehow she had a strong sense of familiarity with him.

"Er... yes?" she lied quickly; he might have seen her enter the lobby and followed her from the University's inner grounds.

"Oh? I haven't seen you before. May I ask your name, fellow magister?" he glared. Now she knew that he wasn't seeking arcane information.

"... Hjotra." Giving her mother's name was risky, yes, but at least he wouldn't have her real name in case he reported this back to Raminus, or worse yet, Caranya. "Now I'm terribly busy and if you'll--"

"My apologies... Hjotra. I'm terribly sorry for the delay. Perhaps I may be able to speak with you when you return from whatever business you must attend to?"

Nhiilaa cleared her throat and said, "Ah. Well, find me when I return... I suppose. Farewell." She bowed, then fled.

–

"Now I'm convinced," she muttered to herself angrily, "that every single member of that cult is out of their damned minds. 'Green Emperor Way where tower touches midday sun' my arse. Just a bunch of damn tombs and graves." Nhiilaa passed the same tomb it seemed for the fifteenth time. It was midday, alright, and she was certain that if she kept circling the outer rim of the Way, she'd stumble across _something_. The trouble was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.

"Stupid assassins. Stupid them and their making things blatantly obvious and then making it difficult to actually know what you're looking for in the first place. I'll bet they have a grand old time just thinking this sort of junk up." Whining, as the gardener observed, came second-nature to this girl.

Longer strings of incoherent blathering spouted from Nhiilaa's lips as she glanced over each stone again. She was so convinced that she wasn't actually going to find something that when one of the tombs actually began to _glow_, she hardly noticed. "Never going to find anything in this damned place..." she gripped. The tomb's now garish red coloring caught her eyes as she passed it. "Hello there, what's this?"

Underneath a rather large and obvious rising sun was a depiction of a map of Cyrodiil, a small dot representing all of the major cities. Just above Cheydinhall was an elaborate compass rose. "That must be the place," mused the Nord. She noted the general location of the marker and turned from the tomb, satisfied with her work.

It was a short walk back to Luther Broad's, an even quicker job of packing, and she was ready to leave. Remembering the catastrophe of Hackdirt, she purchased a small loaf of bread and cheese so that she would at least have something to eat, and left for the stables. Mercifully, Snak gra-Burag hadn't munched on her horse, not that he would have allowed for that anyway. In turn, she paid the stable-hand a fair amount of coins for the safe return of her horse.

"Let's get to Cheydinhall, Morihaus," she whispered to the horse after settling into the saddle. The gate was opened by one of the unhappy looking stable-hands, and Morihaus strode out proudly. As soon as he passed Weye, he turned toward Cheydinhall and broke out into a trot. The sounds of his hooves beating on the road was a comforting sound to her ears. The scent of fresh air, untainted by the sewers, or people crowded too close together, and the feeling of the sun on her face were both a welcome change from the congestion of the city and the lack of nature inside those walls.

–

In truth, Nhiilaa hated Cheydinhall blacks. They were too thin, too stringy. Sure, they were faster than her father's white stallions and chestnut horses, but at least those breeds were hardy. Cheydinhall blacks were too... well, they were something else, like the stable owner's wife. Nhiilaa got the impression of her that she was just a bit flighty, trapped in her own little world where the horses and her husband... lover... whatever he was... was all that she needed. It was a little disconcerting, but at least Morihaus would be left in her capable hands. After all, the horses were her life.

First thing was first: a meal before she asked around about caverns and ruins surrounding the city. One could not simply walk into the hiding hole of some psychotic cult bent on bringing about a new world order expecting to be able to take what they've rightfully stolen and then leave that place in one solid piece. At least, one did not do this on an empty stomach.

Unfortunately, this was not a town she had spent much time in, save for a single visit with her mother to the local guild hall here. She let out an involuntary shiver at the memory of the leader of the guild hall here, Falcar. He'd terrorized, criticized, and humiliated her so much throughout the duration of that entire visit that she would have rather taken illusion lessons from Carahil for a month than spent one more hour in that insufferable man's presence.

So, after getting directions to the nearest tavern from one of the guards and following them to a T, she completely ignored the glowing recommendation of the Cheydinhall Bridge Inn. According to the guard, it was very clean, very quiet, with a nice, law abiding Imperial woman as a publican. A wonderful people person.

Instead, she took to the alternate bar, the Newlands Lodge, that was described by the guard as a place where all the ruffians of town congregated at night, usually to cause a fair amount of property damage. A place where no lady would find herself willingly, the guard had said.

Perfect.

The second that she walked in the door, she knew that she'd made the right choice. Ladies didn't throw chairs, and they most certainly didn't toss them at people just coming into the bar. Then again, this wasn't a lady's kind of bar. Nhiilaa maneuvered between the shrapnel and the debris to the the counter.

"Welcome to the Newlands Lodge," the publican, a dark elf woman, said. "What's your poison?"

"Mead." The dunmer raised an eyebrow. "Traveling in the morning. I'd prefer not to have a splitting headache. Have you got any mutton in this place, or am I going to have to head to the Bridge Inn and take my business to that Imperial woman?" Laughing, the dunmer handed Nhiilaa a bottle of mead.

"You need a room for the night or something?" Nhiilaa nodded. "Ten drakes, up front. Two for the mead and four for the mutton, which'll be right up. Room's first door on the left."

"Thanks," the Nord said, passing her the amount of coins, with a few extra thrown in for good measure. A bowl of mutton stew was placed in front of her moments later, and Nhiilaa grimaced when she realized that it was cold. 'Oh well,' she thought. 'It's better than nothing at all.' She ate in silence amidst all the ruckus surrounding her, occasionally ducking underneath a fist attempting to make contact with another's face, or a piece of furniture being tossed over her head.

"You know of anyone who's gone exploring in the surrounding area?" she asked the dunmer. The woman thought for a moment before answering.

"Borba's a retired adventurer. Maybe she's been. She's the orc in the corner over there, next to the one throwing all the chairs around. She's not the most friendly of people, but enough for an orc, I suppose. S'not likely to throw a punch at you for just asking a simple question, though I can't say the same for the other one," answered the publican before she went back to wiping down the bar. Nhiilaa thanked her again, before taking her bottle of mead, still untouched, with her as she made her way toward the orc pair.

"Excuse me?" she asked, trying to sound confident, which she did not feel.

"What do you want, Nord?" asked the male orc. He stood, full height, and glared at her in the eyes. It was a disconcerting feeling, mainly due to the fact that he was an orc, and being such he was taller than she.

"Actually, I wanted to ask Borba a--"

"Any question that you can ask her, you can ask me. And I'm the one you're dealing with." Intimidation, a tactic that apparently was being more and more favored by more and more people. Nhiilaa straightened, hoping to show bravado, even if it was false.

"Then I would suppose that you know about the areas surrounding Cheydinhall? Particularly any well hidden ruins or natural caverns?" she asked, masking her shakiness by placing her hand on the table for support. The orc male glared at her for a moment, then left to join an fresh group of people just entering the bar. Nhiilaa took his seat across from Borba.

"I've been getting a lot of that same type of question often, lately. I have to say though, you're not like the other people who asked me that," Borba said, chuckling at the dispensation of her friend. "You're not nearly as twitchy as the rest of them."

"Ah... I see. Where did you direct the others, if I may?" The phrasing of the question caused the orcess to fly into a laughing fit.

"Where'd you learn to talk, girl? Anyway, I told them that there are a lot of secluded caves around this area, but the one most of them seemed to be most fascinated about was the Lake Arrius caverns just north a' here. Take the east gate out, and to the left there's an old beat up road. When you get to the fork in the road, you take the left fork. There are some bandit camps around there, so I'd be careful not to take anything you're not willing to lose. Just keep walking until you find the lake. The caverns are right at the end of the road"

"Thank you very much, Borba," she said, and stood.

"Wait just a minute. You're name isn't Nhiilaa Ijorta, is it?" Nhiilaa nodded. The orcess' face fell, a sudden sort of sadness overcoming her. "You knew Agronak. He was my friend's kid, and he used to talk about this funny talkin' Nord girl when he'd visit me. You... you're Dragonheart, then, I guess." Nhiilaa refused to feel guilty about his death anymore. She held her head up, a stern gaze fixed across at the woman.

"Look, Borba, I'm sorry. I--"

"Don't be. I know you didn't have a choice. Agronak knew the danger of the Arena. He knew that he was condemning himself when he joined. It's his own damn fault that he got killed." Borba smiled, but there was a certain sort of pain behind it. "Anyways, good luck with whatever you're doing, kid. And be glad you got out of the Arena circuit while you still have your legs."

"Thank you again, Borba," said the girl. This time, the words had more meaning.

Nhiilaa stood up and, leaving the untouched mead on the table, walked toward the staircase, bag slung over her shoulder. The room itself was plain bordering on ugly, but it would have to do for the night. She allowed for her pack to drop to the floor, her armor banged together as it fell. In an effort to remove her boots, she sat on the edge of the bed. However, she laid back involuntarily, and sleep quickly took her.


	16. Chapter 16

_"What do you think you're going to do, little one? Save the world? Heroes are needed for that, you know. You're not a hero," crooned the sickeningly familiar voice. "You know that. You're just passing yourself off as one until you know that it's a failing effort. Until it's no longer _profitable_. You know that's what you'll do. It's your nature, little Sister. These people are unimpressed with your power, your raw determination. Because you are not one of them. Soon, very soon my child, you will see that you and I aren't so different after all. And then, my dear, you will be mine."_

_The voice faded away with a deep chuckling noise, leaving her alone again to be a prisoner of her own mind._

–

Again, with that same dream. What the voice said was always different, but with the same sort of message, and it was always the same damn voice. Snide, and arrogant. It wasn't a voice she trusted, and she was not about to start taking _his_ advice.

She stayed awake for a while after that. It was a matter of her not allowing herself to submit back to the void that posed as restfulness. She was not about to become anyone's little puppet, especially someone who hides in the shadows of her mind.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not pass back into the realm of slumber. It was near morning, anyway.

–

The morning was cold, colder than most, but it was a refreshing change. Almost like the feeling of home, but not nearly as cold as she'd like it. There was no snow, but it was close. The Jeralls were close, and she could see the peaks of the snowy mountains more clearly now. To be so close to Skyrim, to home, and yet so very far away, and to know that it'd still be a while yet before she ever got to return there.

If the Imperial Legion still patrolled the roads, it sure didn't look like it: the only people she'd met on her short walk were.. well, no one. It seemed too early to be on a walk, but then again, she wasn't here for sight seeing.

Borba had been right when it came to the directions, and now that she knew where to look, the caverns weren't all that difficult to find. Yes, it was still well-hidden, and now she understood why they had picked this specific location; Easy enough for the idiotic fanatics to find, but hidden well enough to keep the Legion out of their business, if they did indeed still did their duty that the tax money paid for. The spectacular view of Lake Arrius was a rather nice touch as well. It almost contrasted to the fact that the nest of the Mythic Dawn was nestled inside of a dark, dirty hole.

The door to the caverns opened silently, a sign of it being well-used and recently oiled. Her eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dim light provided by two torchlights at the far of the empty cavern. Empty, that is save for a singular man between the torches. The Doorkeeper.

Her armor shifted together in her bag loudly, but the Keeper seemed unimpressed by the sword hanging at her belt.

"Dawn is breaking," he greeted.

"Greet the new day," she responded in turn.

"Very good, little Sister. Go, and speak with Harrow. He was take care of the rest of your... initiation," said the Doorkeeper as he opened the door for her to enter. The tunnel was lit by the occasional torch, which in the darkness seemed blinding. Her footsteps echoed throughout the cavern, alerting everyone in the vicinity of her presence. Sneaking out of here with the Amulet was not an option, then. At the end of the tunnel stood a Dunmer, a sickly smile plastered on his face.

"Greet the new day, sister. I am Harrow. I see you have come to us heavily armed; for what reason is this?" he said. His tone was friendly, but behind his words were malice and malcontent. Best to go along with it, she figured.

"Bandits. I didn't particularly feel like dying today, if you get my meaning," Nhiilaa stated matter-of-factly. It wasn't strictly false, even though what she seemed to be doing was quite suicidal.

"Ah, I see. Well, I'll have to ask you to give me all your possessions and put on this robe for the duration of the initiation," Harrow said, handing her a crimson robe. She took it with disgust.

"Why? I don't see why I should--"

"My dear, I'm afraid you have to. Otherwise..." She sighed.

"Fine, alright. You can turn around, you know. Can't help it if I'm shy," she remarked, making a motion for him to turn. The Dunmer heaved a heavy sigh and complied. Nhiilaa smirked as she simply slipped the robe on over her clothing, taking time to slip a dagger or two that she kept in her bags, just in case, into the sides her boots. Arpenalatta was affixed firmly to the top of her bag, then was handed to Harrow. He turned to face her and nodded, motioning for her to follow him.

"You're in luck," said the Dunmer "Master Camoran is here today. Truly a spectacular sight to behold, sister." If Mankar Camoran was here, then so was the Amulet. Then she was in time. She'd take back the Amulet, kill Camoran, and get the Amulet to Martin and then this whole mess would be over. Harrow opened another door and allowed for her to step through first.

"... I go now to Paradise," a voice said from far away. A shiver ran down her spine as she and the Dunmer began to descend a stone staircase towards the center. An Altmer stood upon a platform towards a captivated audience below, who chanted rhythmically, "Praise to Lord Dagon! Praise be!" The Altmer looked pleased, and a fiery portal opened behind him. Clasped around his neck was the Amulet of Kings. "I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!"

Mankar Camoran stepped through the hellish gate, taking the Amulet with him.

'Damn it,' she thought nervously. 'Now what am I supposed to do--'

"We have a new sister," Harrow's voice announced to the rest of the crowd. "She wishes to bind herself to Lord Dagon." Several pairs of hands pushed Nhiilaa towards the staircase of the platform, up to a waiting Altmer woman holding a staff.

"Welcome, sister. You have chosen to give yourself up in service of Lord Dagon. Take the dagger from the altar and offer him the sacrificial red-drink as a pledge of your own, which is his in the end," she said, pushing Nhiilaa toward an altar. Next to a large tome sat a silver dagger, which she took.

"I will... I will slay the sacrifice..." she said quietly. The Altmer guided her back towards the shrine itself, where an Argonian man lay underneath Mehrunes Dagon's cruel effigy.

"Lord Dagon thirsts for red-drink," the Altmer whispered maliciously in her ear. "Sate him."

Nhiilaa knelt before the shrine in mock reverence for the Prince. The knife glimmered in her hand as she raised it towards the Argonian's neck, and she bent down closer.

"You better know some damn good destruction spells for this," she whispered and cut his bindings. Behind her, the Altmer gasped and opened her mouth to warn the others. She didn't get much of a chance though, seeing as how a knife was buried into the side of her neck and everything. The woman's body fell to the floor below her as Nhiilaa wrenched her blade from her neck. The Argonian rose quickly, and apparently he did know quite a few spells, as two more cultists fell to lightning spells. Nhiilaa produced another dagger from one of her boots, and after tossing it to the Argonian, turned her attention toward Harrow.

The Dunmer had conjured up a dagger of his own by the time she reached him. He swung at her with some sort of skill, slicing her left arm in the process. However, she ignored the pain and proceeded to sheath her knife in his gut. Her bag fell to the ground with a loud clamor, and instead of retrieving her dagger, she yanked Arpenalatta from its sheath and set to work on the rest of the cultists.

"Behind you!" the Argonian called to her after dispatching yet another one, and Nhiilaa turned to take care of a-would-be killer.

It was impossible to keep count of the amount of bodies that fell to the floor, but neither the Argonian nor Nhiilaa were among them, though she sustained a great amount of injuries, both by blade and by magic. Finally, the last one fell to her sword, and she stood victorious.

"Well, that was," she said, turning to where the Argonian was where she had last seen him, but he was no where to be found. She sighed; He was gone, most likely ran off to safety. Oh well.

Now that there was little danger, Nhiilaa pulled the blood-soaked robes she wore off. Fortunately, they were thick enough that none of the crimson fluid had stained her clothing, but she was glad to be rid of them. She donned her armor, tucking her hair underneath her helmet, and proceeded to approach the altar. The tome was untouched, and next to it lay her blood-covered dagger that she'd loaned to the lizard. She left it there.

"What's this..." she muttered to herself, extending a hand toward the book. It opened almost willingly to a page towards the middle, and pages decorated in arrays crossing over each other in complex patterns. Daedric lettering spread across the arrays in the traditional way, and Nhiilaa shut the book with a quiet sound. 'This must be the Mysterium Xarxes... I'd better take this to Martin,' she thought, shoving the book into her nearly empty bag.

With the removal of the sacrilegious text, the shrine came crumbling down over the altar. Nhiilaa stepped over the rubble and climbed the staircase.

"Damn," breathed the Nord as she came to the now-closed gate. "I'll have to find another way out then..." She kept Arpenalatta in her hand and tightened her bag across her shoulder. After a minute, she found her alternate route. She opened the door and slipped through as quietly as she could.

–

It took a while to find her way in the near dark, cutting down cultists as she came upon them in groups, but she had finally gotten out of those damned chambers. The light was blinding, and she nearly fell into the lake below as she misstepped. Her eyes had seemed to take forever to adjust to the natural light after being holed up in the darkness for so long.

Knowing that the situation had escalated to a state of emergency, Nhiilaa hadn't bothered to take her armor off. She _ran_ back to Cheydinhall and took Morihaus immediately. Now she really wished she had stopped for at least a short while.

The two were about a mile out of Cheydinhall, but it was apparent that the stubborn horse was not about to slow down. However, she could see a figure walking along the road ahead of them, and as they neared the person, she forced him to slow to a trot.

It was the Argonian.

"Wait a moment!" she called down, forcing Morihaus to a stop. The Argonian stared at her as she dismounted, mouth agape.

"You... you're the one who save me... Thank you," he said, surprised. "I am glad to see that you are safe. I am called Jeelius." Nhiilaa held out a gloved hand in greeting to Jeelius.

"Nhiilaa Ijorta. Where're you headed?" asked the Nord.

"The Imperial City," he answered. Nhiilaa cast him a critical eye.

"You realize you're walking along the road in nothin' but your skivvies, right? Here, lemme see if I have a spare set a clothing. A bandit'll more likely cut your throat than leave you alone in these parts," she said and turned to her saddle bags. After much deliberation, she handed him a set of clothing complete with her spare boots. "It'll be a little big, but it'll have to do." Jeelius nodded and slipped behind a tree to dress. He returned moments later, dressed appropriately.

"Thank you for your kindness, Nhiilaa," he said, bowing.

"Hah, what kind of person would I be if I didn't?" she laughed. "Come on, I can take you as far as the Roxey Inn, if you'd like. There's most likely an Imperial Legion soldier there who can help you more. Can't go getting killed by bandits, now that you've just escaped the Mythic Dawn." Nhiilaa mounted first, then helped Jeelius into the saddle behind her.

"Was that who that was? All I remember was being grabbed by some hooded men as I left the temple yesterday," he said.

"Ouch. So one minute you're praising... whatever god you people celebrate in the Imperial City, and the next you're about to be a sacrifice to some daedric Prince? That's got to be interesting to say the least."

"I would not use those words, but I suppose so. I do not know why you were there, and I am not sure that I want to. Perhaps Akatosh guided you there to stop them," the Argonian mused. Nhiilaa fought back a giggle and rolled her eyes. If only he knew.

The road passed underneath them quietly and without conflict for a while. The sun began to set as they neared a worn, but stable building.

"Here we are, the Roxey Inn. This is as far as I can take you, I'm afraid," she said. Jeelius climbed down from the saddle and bowed to her.

"Thank you, Nhiilaa. I am a priest at the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Perhaps our paths will cross one day," he said. She smiled as he walked into the inn, then burst out into a fit of giggling.

"Yeah, like I'll ever visit that place," she snickered as she spurred Morihaus back into a gallop.

–

"Open the gates!" one of the Blades yelled from the top of the watchtower as Morihaus and Nhiilaa neared the Temple. The gates opened with an audible groan, and horse-and-rider entered. Nhiilaa slipped from Morihaus' back once they got to the top of the staircase, and Jauffre rushed out from the grand hall.

"Oh thank Talos you're safe! Have you brought the Amulet?" the old monk gasped. Nhiilaa maintained a stern face as she shook her head.

"No, Mankar Camoran got away with it. But I have the Mysterium Xarxes," said the Nord.

"Ah, then you should take that you Martin. James! Take Nhiilaa's horse to the stable!" Jauffre motioned to one of the Blades and gave him Morihaus' reigns. Before she could enter the grand hall, the monk grabbed her by the left arm. She winced, due to the wound she'd had no time to heal, but Jauffre did not seem to notice. "Be gentle with him... He hasn't slept much since you left." She nodded and pushed the door open.

Martin sat at a table, his eyes closed as if in deep thought. The sound of her knuckles rapping on the table woke him from his stupor. He looked up at her, and she could see what Jauffre had meant: Martin looked as if he'd aged overnight, his eye full to the brim with weariness.

"Oh... you're back," he yawned. "I told Jauffre not to worry about you, but he didn't listen." Nhiilaa frowned at him.

"You look tired," she said.

"I didn't sleep well last night." He stared at her with a critical eye. "You don't have the Amulet, do you?" She sighed.

"No, I'm sorry Martin. But I brought you the Mysterium Xarxes. Maybe—"

"By the Nine, Nhiilaa! That thing is dangerous to handle! What-"

"Oh I'm _so_ sorry. Maybe I'll just take it back to the Mythic Dawn then saying, 'Oh, hello again! Just me, don't get up. I'm here to return your sacred text. Perhaps we can discuss how Martin's an ungrateful little prat over an ale? What's that? Speak up. I can't hear you, you being _dead _and all!'," she snapped, waving her arms around for effect. Heads turned toward her after her outburst, and Martin's face fell. To her surprise, he took her hand in his and looked her in the eye sadly.

"I'm... Forgive me. I was out of place, and you were right to bring it to me. You should give it to me though. I can protect myself from it," he said gently. Nhiilaa took her hand out of his and in its place put the Xarxes. He, in turn, placed the evil book on the table.

"So, do you think this thing can lead us to where Camoran is?" she asked, hoping to bridge the awkward silence.

"Maybe. I'll need time, as merely reading dark secrets such as these can be very dangerous. I'll have to proceed with caution," sighed the former priest. "Nhiilaa, I am glad you're safe." He patted her on the arm, causing her cringe in pain. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong," she grumbled through gritted teeth. Leaving a stunned Martin alone in the grand hall, she took her bag and went into the dining hall. She ignored the other Blades as they greeted her, instead seeking solitude in the armory. It was as she crumpled to the floor in a heap that she realized just how much pain she was in.


	17. Chapter 17

Every movement was a struggle as she pulled her armor off, abandoning it in a pile next to her. Her sleeve was ripped where Harrow had gouged her arm, and there were burn marks from the variety of spells that she'd been hit with, but the majority of the wounds were on her forearms and hands, which were nearly shredded from daggers and the occasional mace. She blinked back tears and began to heal her injuries the best she could, but she as she was exhausted, the spells came out weaker than she needed them to be, frustrating her even more.

"Damn it," cursed the Nord as she fumbled for a spare cloth to rip to serve as mediocre bandages. The door to the armory opened, but she ignored whoever came in. Now was not the time to bother her.

"Nhiilaa? Are you down here?" She groaned. _Martin_. The Imperial came into the room and looked around for her until his eyes finally found her, and finally settled on her menagerie of wounds. "Oh, Nhiilaa..."

"I'm _fine_, Martin," she insisted, struggling to get up. Her leg gave out on her, sending her crashing to the floor.

"The blood and burn marks say otherwise. What in the Nine happened?!" It was obvious that he was worried, maybe even frightened. Quickly, he crossed the remainder of the room and pulled her into a sitting position.

"I told you I killed the cultists. Never said that they didn't try to fight back," she grimaced, in an attempt to make light of the situation.

"It's not funny. You're severely injured!" She opened her mouth to protest, but Martin cut her off. "And don't you _even_ try and tell me that it doesn't hurt, or that you've had worse. I don't care at this point." He took her arms with a certain authority, but as gently as he could, and the familiar blue-ish glow surrounded his hands. She could feel the agony wash from her veins as the flesh was knitted back together with a skill that surpassed her own. As the pain receded, she sat up straighter. Still, it was only after a majority of the injuries had been healed that she dared to speak.

"Thank you..." said the girl. She did not try to stand.

"Stay here for a moment,"said Martin with a certain type of commanding kindness. He stood and left her alone in the darkness. Nhiilaa let out a heavy sigh and tilted her head against the wall. She could hear laughing in the dining hall through the ceiling. Martin probably got sucked up there in some joke or another, leaving the Nord to face her own abandonment.

The door opened, surprisingly, and in came Martin, two bowls of stew, complete with spoon and two large hunks of bread on the side, in his hands. He handed one bowl to Nhiilaa before he sat next to her on the floor. They ate in silence.

Nhiilaa finished before Martin was halfway done with his own bowl, and she set hers aside on the floor. She waited politely for him to finish.

"Thanks. You know, for the food and the healing," she said.

"You're quite welcome. Can't have you bleeding all over the place, can we?" laughed Martin nervously. More silence. She cleared her throat to shatter it.

"There's something I've been meanin' to ask you though..."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Since when are priests taught to read daedric?" Apparently her question struck a nerve, because his jolly tone immediately faded.

"I wasn't always a priest," he said grimly. "I... put the dark arts aside when I took my vows as a priest. Let it suffice to say that I know more than I want to about the daedra and their seductive ways." He let out a hallow laugh. "I used to tell others that 'the gods can turn anything to good.' I don't know if I even believe that anymore. I would have told you sooner but--"

"You didn't have to tell me at all. But... thank you for not lying to me. I appreciate it," she said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Now... what are we going to do about Camoran?"

"I believe that there's only one way to stop him, and that is to relight the Dragonfires. While they burned, the divine barriers kept the daedra from making more than fleeting visits to our world. But, they can only be re-lit by an heir of the Septim blood wielding the Amulet of Kings. This was the essence of Mankar Camoran's plot. He was undone only by the merest…chance…but his complete victory remains perilously close. We must recover the Amulet of Kings and relight the Dragonfires, before it is too late to stem Dagon's invasion," he said sighing.

"Oh, well that doesn't sound difficult _at all_," said Nhiilaa, rolling her eyes. Martin stood up and helped her to her feet.

"If it was easy, then anyone else could do it. We wouldn't have been needed if it was easy," he said with a sorrowful smile. "I need to start translating the Mysterium Xarxes. In the meantime, Jauffre was grumbling about something and will most likely try and seek your aid. You might as well beat him to it and ask about it."

"Tch. You get to sit in a nice comfortable hall with a roaring fire and good company, and I'll most likely have to go traipsing about half of Cyrodiil, all on one of Jauffre's whims. Perfect." Nhiilaa shoved her armor back into her bag before picking it up and walking back into the dining hall, Martin walking next to her. She was about to turn to the west wing of the Temple for some much needed rest, but unfortunately the old codger caught her.

"Nhiilaa!" he called. She groaned internally as she turned towards him.

"Yes, Jauffre?"

"I need your assistance in taking care of something. The gate guards have reported seeing some strangers on the road the last few nights. I can't spare any men to go searching through the whole mountainside so I figured--"

"That I could do it," she finished.

"Well, yes. I need those... those spies eliminated. You _can_ take care of this, right?"

"I'm almost insulted that you felt you had to ask. Of course I can take care of it!"

"Good. You might talk to Steffan as he's been on guard. I've notified the Countess of this, so Captain Burd of the Bruma guard might be of some assistance," Jauffre said. Nhiilaa nodded in understanding, and moved to take her leave. "Oh, and Nhiilaa?" She stopped.

"Yes?"

"Find out why they're here, then kill them. We can't leave the Mythic Dawn to operate out of Bruma with impunity."

"Understood," she said and turned.

"And one more thing," he said. It was beginning to get a tad irksome, his ending the conversation and then thinking of something else.

"What could that be?" She faced him again.

"Take James with you. He's been driving me mad. Getting away from the Temple will help curve his appetite for battle, I hope."

"Alright. Good bye," said the Nord. Nhiilaa was halfway out the door when Jauffre spoke up again.

"Nhiilaa!"

"Good-bye, Jauffre!" she called behind her, allowing for the door to slam shut. The cold air bit at her welcomely, her lungs filling with the sweet feeling of ice. So close to home, but not quite there. It would have to do for the time.

James was waiting for her at the stables and walked over to her as she left the grand hall. He bowed slightly to her as some sort of greeting, which she did not quite return.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Nhiilaa," he said.

"Likewise, James. Jauffre says that we should speak with Steffan first. You've an idea as to where he is?"

"He's over in the training square with Cyrus." James motioned over to two sparring Blades. "He's the smaller one." Nhiilaa nodded, and the two walked over to them.

"Steffan! Could we speak with you for a moment?" she called above the clamor of the battling swordsmen. The two stopped instantly, and Cyrus burst out laughing.

"You just saved him from an embarrassing whooping," said the Redguard as he walked away. Steffan grumbled as he turned to Nhiilaa and James.

"What can I do for you?" asked Steffan.

"You were on guard when you saw the spies, right? What'd you see?" James asked, irritating Nhiilaa slightly.

"There've been these two people over at the runestone at dusk. They aren't too woodcrafty, but Grandmaster Jauffre has forbidden us to range too far from the walls," he said, taking off his helmet. "He said to leave this stuff to you so that we can protect the Emperor." And with that, Steffan took his own leave and entered the east wing.

"Well, at least we know where they are at dusk," sighed Nhiilaa. "But it's hours until then, we might as well check out Bruma while we can." James stared at Nhiilaa with a critical eye. "What? I don't want to be standing up here idly." He shook his head.

"It's not that, it's your clothing," said the Imperial. Nhiilaa looked down and saw what he meant: the cloth was covered in rips and the occasional blood smear that she hadn't seen in the darkness of the caverns.

"Damn. Well, I can buy some new clothing in Bruma, I suppose. I gave my spare set to some priest I helped," she groaned. "I might as well let Morihaus rest. He galloped all the way here from the Roxey Inn. Poor thing is probably exhausted." The two began to walked towards the gate.

"You do realize that it's a _horse_, right?" James asked skeptically.

"Yes, I do... why?"

"You treat it like it's a person," he laughed.

"Just because _he_ isn't a human isn't an excuse to treat _him_ badly and act like he doesn't care," she sniped. "Horses care more than you think. It's that attitude that'll get you bit."

"You know, a casual observer would think that you're absolutely insane, right?"

"That's because the casual observer is most likely a pigheaded idiot," she giggled. James laughed, and left it at that.

–

"... And then there's the general store, Novaroma, which is next to Nord Winds and the Jerall View," the guard said. Nhiilaa thanked him and she and James climbed the steps to the second level.

"So you're planning on buying clothes at this Novaroma place?" he asked. Nhiilaa nodded.

"It's better than borrowing some outfit from the Mages Guild. Besides, I don't really feel like dealing with Jeanne Frasoric today," responded the Nord as the two reached the door to the shop. It opened, and they stepped inside. A warm fire greeted them, as did a surly looking Altmer.

"Welcome to Novaroma. We carry a variety of wares at a reasonable price. My name is Suurootan," he said monotonously. Nhiilaa paled as he said this.

"Are you alright?" James whispered to her. Flashes of her one year in Bruma flooded her mind, memories of taunts and pain. All caused by...

"You..." she managed to gasp.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Suurootan asked apathetically, crossing his arms. Her hand rested on Arpenalatta's hilt. She attempted to muster up all of the confidence that she could, but somehow, it was still lacking. The boy that had made her miserable for a full year, made her hate herself so much, now stood in front of her smugly. She'd wipe that damn look off his face once and for all.

"That depends. How often do you go to the Arena?" The Altmer shrugged.

"I used to go on the off chance I was in the Imperial City. Blood sports only hold their interest for so long, you see. Why? Who are you?" A smirk spread across her face.

"They call me Dragonheart, but you," she said snidely, "may call me Nhiilaa Ijorta." It was Suurootan's turn to fade to paper white now. Unfortunately, he didn't.

"Feh. What? Do you expect me to be scared or something? The only thing you've proven is you're more of a barbarian now than you were when you were a child. I'm sure your mother is _thrilled_ at your choice in life. Where is your dear mother, now? Off trying to prove to the Mages Guild that you Nords are of some use other than cracking skulls open for hire?" Her eyes narrowed, all nervousness of seeing her childhood tormentor gone. The mention of Hjotra by this creature that had continually condemned her and her family, as if her mother was some saint amongst sinners when in all actuality, he had hated her just as much... that was too much.

"My mother," said the girl slowly, carefully placing an individual fire behind each word, "is dead. Killed nearly seven years ago, because of a rotten, arrogant, self-serving Altmer like yourself. It was because of _your people_ that my father and I have had to live so long without her. All because people like you could not take the fall _just once_. No, you always have your pride to nurse, don't you?" She took a step towards Suurootan. Fear flashed in his eyes for but a moment. "You'd be wise not to insult her memory in my presence. Remember, Altmer," she spat at the word. "Assault and murder may be illegal in Cyrodiil, but I don't have to even _touch _you to make you wish that you were dead." With one final glare filled to the brim with pure malice, she turned and stormed from the shop. James followed at her heels.

"What in Oblivion was that?" he hissed as soon as the door slammed shut.

"Nothing," she snapped back. "It was nothing at all."

"Well your little 'nothing' just cost you the opportunity of getting a fresh change of clothing. Now what do you propose we do? We can't have you roaming the streets of Bruma covered in blood." Nhiilaa turned to James suddenly, eyes ablaze with flaming anger.

"I guess we'll just have to go the the Mages Guild, now won't we?"

–

"Will you just come out of there already?" James asked for what seemed to be the millionth time.

"No," said Nhiilaa from the other side of the door. "I look ridiculous." He tilted his head back onto the door with a thud and sighed deeply.

"You've been holed in there for an hour. I'm sure you look fine."

"You obviously haven't seen this outfit then." James turned and placed his palms on the door, staring at the floor.

"Look, either you come out right now, or I'll break down the damn door and carry you out myself," he snarled.

"... Fine. If you say anything, I will crack open your skull and feed the insides to some beggar, I promise you. Though that may make for a meager meal." He took two steps back, and folded his arms over his chest as the door creaked open. At first, he bit his lip to contain the laughter, but it was a lost cause. As she stepped out of the room, he burst into a fit, doubling over and tears nearly rolling out of his eyes. "Stop that!" she whined, her cheeks flushing bright scarlet in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't have even pictured you in something so... so... _feminine_," said James as he wiped the tears from his cheeks. Nhiilaa tugged at the blue velvet that clung to her hips uncomfortably.

"S'not that funny. It's just a damned dress." She folded her arms over her chest, covering partially the long leather cording and pendant that now adorned the neckline.

"Still, there's something not quite right with it," he said, musing over the sight before him. "Maybe you should lose the sword and belt?" He reached to remove it from her waist. Deftly, Nhiilaa caught him by the wrist and bent it back to force him to straighten up.

"Peleius, if you touch that sword, I'll rip your hands off and shove them down your damned throat."


	18. Chapter 18

James was frustrated. Since the catastrophe that had been their expedition to Novaroma, Nhiilaa's mood had tempered some, as she was no longer vehemently spitting fire from her lips every time she spoke. The dress, however, seemed to have put her into a some sort of mood that, while apparently docile, bubbled underneath the surface. It was frightfully disconcerting.

Of course, she did look rather nice in that dress; the blue velvet brought out her eyes and complimented her pale skin in an almost attractive way. Still, there was something... lacking. Perhaps it was the sword affixed ominously to her side, almost like an infant to its mother's hip. Or maybe it was her scowl that silenced the guardsmen before they had the chance to whistle at her.

No, it wasn't, James decided. It was most likely, he thought, the fact that Nhiilaa the Nord lacked even a single iota of aristocratic social grace. That, he found, put the true dampener on her prospective beauty. While the ladies of the high courts would stand up straight and proud, looks of superiority plastered on their pretty faces, Nhiilaa stood with shoulders hunched, her eyes venomously boring acid into the backs of heads of passersby.

The guardhouse, typically, would not have been a place for a lady that looked the way she did. That was, of course, saying that this tall, and strangely striking girl was a lady, which she wasn't. You could dress her up in finery and silks, but on the inside, she would always be the same person, and that person was most certainly _not_ a lady of caliber. And so, Nhiilaa was quite at home in the guardhouse. These were her people, she felt.

Unfortunately, the guardsmen did not hold this fellow sentiment. James sighed as she attracted more and more stares from the male guards; He noticed there were no female guards in the barracks. Whispers followed her as she passed with James behind her, but nothing more.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle sharply broke the chattering sounds. Nhiilaa stopped dead in her tracks, and turned towards the sound. A group of guardsmen howled in laughter at her enraged looks. They were, in all likelihood, drunk, but that didn't matter to her at the moment. James groaned, almost knowing what would happen next.

"Something _funny_?" she asked rhetorically.

"No," the apparent leader of the group laughed. "We haven't seen a Nord try an' play 'Dress Up' before is all." She felt her ears turn pink from fresh embarrassment as he continued his booming laugh. Another of the guard clapped him on the back and all the guardsmen let out a fresh chorus of chortles. The sober ones watched her with careful eyes, hands instinctively resting on the hilt of their swords.

"Aw, leave her alone," the second guard said to the first. "The captain wouldn't be too happy for upsetting the locals. It isn't their fault they're so _damn dumb_."

That was it. What happened next was a blur. That second guard was not seated for long, and went sailing headfirst over the table into the laps of some of the others. Before he knew it, James had entered the fray, more to keep Nhiilaa from cracking their heads against the walls than to actually assist her in her violent endeavors. Guard after guard fell to the floor, and the whirl of blue velvet kept going. Furniture broke with a horrible cracking noise, and nearly all participants earned fresh wounds.

"Enough!" a voice broke the din of the fight. All motion stopped, all except for a singular man, tall and imposing, walking toward the epicenter of the ruckus. "I want to know who the hell thought it was a good idea to start a fight in _my_ barracks." Silence. "Answer me!" he shouted. The sea of people parted to allow for him to face the sapphire-clad terror, who held the original guardsman by the hair out in front of her. As his gaze locked on her, she dropped the man, who fell to the floor and scrambled away. Once, she had the potential of beauty. Now, she had a fresh array for bruises and cuts from the scuffle, her dress torn on the arms, a sleeve completely ripped off, revealing her myriad of scars. The only finery she retained was the pendant hanging on her neck by the old leather cording.

The man walked to where she stood and looked her in the eye. "Just who in Oblivion are you?" he asked her. Nhiilaa straightened and crossed her arms, her weight redistributing over her heels.

"Nhiilaa Ijorta. Am I safe to assume that you're to be Captain Burd?" responded the girl calmly.

"That I am. You want to tell me what you're doing here, Miss Ijorta, and just why you've nearly destroyed my barracks?" Her hands went to her hips immediately.

"That's something I'm not at liberty to discuss in front of everyone here. Is there some place we may discuss matters privately?" Burd looked at her as if she was crazy.

"You come in here. You cause a riot, and you think you have the right to ask me to discuss things in private?" questioned the captain, amazed. The girl nodded. While he was speechless, he had no choice but to agree. "Alright, alright. Come with me to my office." Both Nhiilaa and James followed the man into his office, away from the gaping mouths and stares that now plagued the faces of the onlookers.

The door to the office shut behind them quietly, and Burd went directly to his desk. "Now, do you care to tell about what just happened out there?"

"With the fight? Your men not only insulted me, but the rest of my people. I don't take that lightly, Captain," she said calmly. "As for why I'm here, Grandmaster Jauffre's sent us to ask you about the spies that have been frequenting the Bruma mountainside."

"Ah. I must say, I'm surprised that a Blade would wear such an outfit. Wouldn't that--"

"I would prefer to defer the conversation back to the matter at hand, Captain," mused the Nord quietly. Her diction, James noted, had shifted drastically in the past few moments. The accent she could never mask, but her vocabulary... it reminded him of something all too familiar.

"Of course, ma'am. Well, I had my people ask around. There haven't been any strangers around the city recently. Jearl's come back from a trip down to Leyawin, but that's about the extent of the travelers that's come through here," he said. Nhiilaa looked disappointed.

"Where can we find this... Jearl? We'd like to speak with her if possible," James interrupted.

"She's got a house near the chapel I believe. I'm not sure of its exactly location, though."

"Thank you, Captain," said James, pulling Nhiilaa to her feet. "C'mon, Nhiilaa. It'll be dusk soon anyway," he whispered to the Nord. She obliged without much of a quarrel.

–

"You've had that dress for all of an hour, if that, and you've managed to ruin it," laughed the Imperial. Nhiilaa searched through yet another set of drawers of the living quarters back at Cloud Ruler.

"Not my fault," Nhiilaa grumbed.

"If I'm remembering correctly, you were the one who threw that poor bastard over the table."

"Hey," she said, standing. "It's not my fault he's so willing to believe in one part of the stereotype. They conveniently forget the part where Nords are more willing to drop you than cower at your insults."

"So you felt like perpetuating the belief that you're a barbarian. That's smart, Nhiilaa. Very smart. Good progression for the acceptance of your people," he scoffed. This was not a smart thing to say. She turned and glared at him.

"Look, Peleius. In Skyrim, when you get insulted by someone to your face, you do not take it. You people call _us_ the barbarians, and yet here you are, wallowing in your ignorance and superiority complexes. You think that because we settle our insults with our fists instead of with 'diplomacy' that we're beneath you. I've seen your people's diplomacy. We Nords face our problems directly, where as you Imperials pride yourselves in secrecy and deceit," she said angrily, taking each word with deliberate slowness. "At least when Nords fight, it ends at the last blow. We don't ruin families by resorting to hiring the Dark Brotherhood to take care of our squabbles."

James was speechless. Somehow, the Nord found a way to continue. "You people pass judgment on us because you think that we are an inferior people. Because we don't celebrate the Nine, we must be ignorant. Because not every single Nord cares to devote themselves to studies and magic that we must be illiterate. We prefer the sword because it's helped us to survive the harshness and barren lands that your ancestors have forced us to endure, not because we like the violence. We do it so that we may _live_. What excuse do you have for solving your problems with pettiness? Think about that, Peleius, and then you may pass judgment on me if you still think that I am a barbarian." Despite the bruises plaguing her facial features, the fire behind her eyes was undeniable.

To be truthful, she did not know what she had expected from James when she made her little speech. Perhaps she'd thought that he would have backed down; people usually did when she lashed out in such a manner.

James did not look as if he was about to back down. He rocked back on his heels and folded his arms over his chest, staring back at her with a critical eye.

"You speak as if you are the infallible one, Nhiilaa. As if there is no wrong that you, and _your_ people can do. Why is this? I understand the sentiment of hatred because you've been prejudiced against your entire life, but to take out your anger on a friend... that's just sickening. For all your ranting and whining, you're just as bad as those Imperials that you criticize so harshly. Do your case a favor, _girl_: Shut up and practice what you preach," he snapped angrily.

They two stared at each other in dreadful silence, neither party willing to break the gaze of the other. The door to the west wing opened with a creaking sound.

"James? Nhiilaa? I thought you two were looking for the spies?" Martin asked, confused.

"We had to come back and find Nhiilaa a fresh set of clothing. She decided to go and cause a fight in the guardhouse," James said, not allowing his eyes to meet Martin's. Nhiilaa could hear Martin let out an exasperated sigh, but she did not care.

"James, if you could give Nhiilaa and I a moment? Please," he said politely.

"Of course, sire," the Blade said, leaving Nhiilaa alone with the Septim heir. She could not bear to meet his gaze, so she turned back to the drawers.

Martin placed his hand over hers comfortingly, and she looked up at him. He noticed her manner of dress, and quickly locked his gaze on her face. Before he could speak, she stopped him.

"Before you say anything, Martin, no, I'm not fine. Today has been a whirlwind of events that I'd prefer hadn't happened, and frankly, I'm tired and I'm irritable. I don't particularly feel like killing a pair of spies tonight, but I'm going to have to. No, there is nothing that you can do to help. Yes, I'm absolutely positive. Yes, I am going to apologize to James for being rude to him. And finally, no, I don't need you obsessing over my injuries like a crazed mother," she said. "Have I covered everything?"

"Almost," he said, making to leave to head back to the main hall, presumably back to his table. He looked back at her before he opened the door. "You look nice in blue." Then he was gone.

–

Nhiilaa cleared her throat. The man that she addressed this to looked up from his meal of bread and meat.

"What do you want?" James asked. It was not judgmental, nor contemptible. It was simply a question.

"I... I wanted to apologize. My behavior was atrocious, to say the very least," she said.

"I happen to agree. It doesn't mean you weren't right. Imperials are judgmental. It doesn't mean it deserves whining about every five seconds, though," he retorted. James let out a sigh and smiled weakly. "I suppose I owe you an apology as well. I handled the situation poorly." He stood to shake her hand. What she did was surprising, though.

Nhiilaa hugged him.

After a moment or so, she relinquished her grip on him. The two looked at each other again and smiled, until the reality of the situation dawned on them.

"Well, those spies would be long gone by now. It's past dusk," the Imperial mused. Nhiilaa sat, prompting James to do the same. "What's our next step?"

"I think we should talk to this Jearl person. Maybe she knows something about it. Even if it doesn't help, all we do is stake out the stones tomorrow night, right?"

"Sounds like as good an idea as any." Nhiilaa stretched her legs out under the table, stealing a small strip of meat off of his plate. James looked at where the piece once sat, a look of mock surprise on his face. "Were you raised in a barn?" he questioned with a smile on his lips, shaking his head.

"Worse yet, a stable," giggled the girl as she popped it into her mouth. "My father did not raise a lady, I'll have you know."

"I thought it was every little girl's dream to be a lady of high standing, with handmaidens and butlers and the works?" Her smile faltered slightly.

"In Skyrim, we do not value the finery like you people down here seem to. Besides, in Anvil I was busily attempting to break my way out of rat infested basements, which of course leaves no time for the practice of etiquette like my mother wished me to. A proper lady, I feel, I will never make, much to my mother's chagrin," Nhiilaa said, almost sadly. "Besides, you have to wear all those tight clothing and keep up such dreadful appearances. Far, far too much work. A life of leisure is what I have, and I tend to keep it as such."

"Oh yes, stirring up fights with the guards of Bruma, battling the harshness of the landscape, and hunting spies. Yours is truly the envious way of life. I wish I could live in such a lap of luxury," the Imperial rolled his eyes as he spoke. He pushed himself from the table and stood, offering his hand to Nhiilaa in assistance. "Now, if her _ladyship_ would be so kind as to excuse this miserable excuse of a servant, I would be off to cleanse myself of the day's filth. If it pleases my lady, I would suggest that she would retire so that this next day would not come as a trial to her."

"Oh, shut up. You sound ridiculous," Nhiilaa laughed, standing on her own. "I'd rather cut off my own hands and never hold a blade again than be tied to the responsibilities of civility."

"Hah, you'd better pray that it never comes to that, then. I'd hate to see you wander the wastelands handless just to avoid wearing a skirt."


	19. Chapter 19

"Up and at 'em, sunshine," a voice commanded over her. A boot lightly nudged her side, and in response, Nhiilaa groaned and pulled the blanket up over head, curling up into a tight ball. The voice above her sighed. A second later, and her cover was pulled from her sleeping form, the cold air washing over her like water. Slowly, she opened her eyes, first the left, then the right, to see James looming over her, blanket in hand. "We have to get going. It's nearly mid-day," he said, pulling her to her feet.

"You could at least give me a little privacy so that I can change into something warmer," she grumbled, crossing her arms.

"Fine. Come out to the Grand Hall when you're ready to leave," James said, turning to leave.

Nhiilaa waited a minute or so in silence after the door shut behind him, as if to make sure that he was not about to turn back around and force her to leave at that moment. When he didn't, she turned to her bag, took one look at it, and crawled back into the comforting warmth of her bedroll.

He'd forgotten to take the blanket.

–

"I should have known that you were going to pull something like that," James sighed. "Now Jauffre'll have my head for not completing our task on time. I don't think he noticed we came back last night empty handed, but..."

"James, stop complaining. If he's going to yell at anyone, it will be me," she said. It was beginning to be clear why Jauffre found James to be so irritating. Still, it was easier than going about this by herself, she supposed. The two had gotten directions to Jearl's home earlier, and now trudged through the snow-covered streets. Apparently, Nhiilaa's thoughts of 'warmer clothing' happened to just be a simple pair of leather boots, which she wore on a day-to-day basis anyway.

"I'm just saying--"

"No, you're just whining. Now you're going to stop it or you're going to find yourself not having any much of a face left," snapped the Nord. She stopped at the porch of where the guard had said that Jearl was known to reside. "This is it, I believe..." Nhiilaa knocked on the door loudly.

"Out of curiosity," ventured the Imperial as they awaited for the inhabitant of the abode to come and answer the door. "What exactly would have happened to my face if I did not cease my 'whining', as you put it?"

"I'd have ripped it off and thrown it onto the pavement."

"That's just a tad annoying, don't you thing?"

"Not nearly as much as this conversation is." James decided to leave it at that, allowing for silence to fill the void as they waited.

Minutes passed, but there was no response. She knocked again, this time it was more of her banging her fist against the door, and again, there was not even movement inside of the abode. Concern filled the faces of both Blades, and Nhiilaa tested the doorknob.

To her surprise, it wasn't even locked. "Maybe she's just in her basement?" James offered hopefully. Somehow, Nhiilaa didn't think so. The door opened slowly with a moan of protest, and the pair stepped inside.

Immediately, they were greeted by the pungent odor of dirt mixed with blood. Across the table lay Jearl, and on the floor, a Dunmer woman. Both women had lacerations covering their bodies, their faces mutilated almost beyond recognition, and their blood decorated all four walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Pots that once held flowers were smashed, their contents strewn over the floor. Books that had been resting on shelves and bookcases were tosses carelessly, their pages now stained crimson. The chairs around Jearl's resting place were broken, the splinters adorning her clothing.

"Damn," the girl swore, examining the ruin. James shook his head. "It looks like someone has been doing our job for us."

"This is _very_ bad, Nhiilaa," the Imperial said gravely. "Either this is just some... sick, twisted murderer, or we have a spy _within_ Cloud Ruler Temple. Neither choice is optimal. As much as I hate to say it, this is one time where I truly, truly hope this to be the work of the Dark Brotherhood. The latter..."

"The latter means that there is someone in Cloud Ruler who's taken akin to vigilante justice," Nhiilaa finished. "We might as well look around for whatever the person who killed them was looking for." James turned to her, an accusational look in his eye.

"How do you know if someone was looking for something or not? This chaos could have ensued in the scuffle of battle," he said.

"For starters, everything that's on the floor is on _top_ of the blood pools. Logically, if they'd fallen during it, wouldn't at least some of them be covered in blood, not just soaking in the puddles? And what about their injuries? If I'm not mistaken, each blow would be fatal enough on their own, but the killer kept going. It looks as if Jearl was killed first, and while the killer was mutilating her body, the second woman came from somewhere... and tried to get away. But she was caught and he killed her," she said, kneeling to examine the second corpse closer. "It looks like she came out of that trap-door there." Nhiilaa pointed to an uncovered door in the floor.

James attempted to pull up the door, but to no avail. "It's locked." The girl crossed the room to his location, and produced a lockpick from her shirt's pocket. A moment or so passed, and the lock clicked open. "Ladies first," the man said, sweeping his arm gracefully and allowing for her to slip down the ladder into the basement. He followed her quickly, boots making echoing sounds on the flagstones below.

"Look, on the floor," she said, pointing. A singular line of blood stains led from where they stood to a doorway on the opposing side of the basement.

"They must have left this way. Did you notice a door to the outside from the basement?"

"No, this house wouldn't have that. It's not big enough. Only two level houses have that in Bruma," she said, looking away from the bloody footprints and around the basement. "I found something."

"What is it?" He peered over her shoulder. In one hand, she held a copy of the _Commentaries_, and in the other, a letter, the seal still attached to one end of the parchment.

"They're orders... Damn it all!" she cursed, placing the book down to grasp the paper with both hands. "The Mythic Dawn's planning to open a Great Gate, whatever that it, near Bruma... and they know Martin's at Cloud Ruler!"

"What?! Let me see that!" James exclaimed, snatching the orders out of Nhiilaa's hands. "Jauffre is not going to like this _at all_."

"Who cares if Jauffre's going to like it?! Cloud Ruler's defenses could be in danger. Martin--" Panic gripped her tightly, but the Imperial grasped her more so by the shoulders.

"Listen, as far as we can tell, all the Mythic Dawn knows is that Martin's there. We know what they're trying to pull now, so we have at least some sort of leverage on the situation. We need to take this back to Jauffre, he'll know what to do from there," he said, his voice forceful. Nhiilaa nodded, taking back the letter and pocketing it. "We might as well follow the blood trail right now. Whoever killed Jearl and the two operatives might still be where ever that door leads, and if we nip this in the bud right now, at least the Grandmaster won't be too terribly angry with us..."

"Right," she said, following James through the door.

Surprisingly, the door did not lead to another room, but a long tunnel of natural caverns. They did not speak, the only sounds being made were the soft shuffles of their boots in the darkness. Nhiilaa did not risk an illumination spell; it would only serve to notify anyone, if there was indeed anyone in these Aedra forsaken caves, of their presence and location, making them easy targets.

The cavern itself was not large, but the essence of their mission made it seem impossibly large. A light shone at the end, they could see, though somehow it felt as if it was an eternity away. However, save for a few wolves and the occasional bear, the two Blades were the only living creatures. Despite their careful combing of the entire area, there was not a single other person to be found, let alone a murderer hiding in the darkness. Whoever had killed the two Mythic Dawn agents were long gone by now.

This was not good news.

The decrepit door at the end of their long descent nearly fell off its hinges as James opened it. The sun's light reflected off of the snow and back into their eyes, nearly blinding them. After a moment's worth of adjustment, they set their course back to Cloud Ruler Temple, each one thinking about how in blazes they were going to explain this blunder to the Grandmaster.

–

Jauffre dipped his quill in the inkwell, but for a moment, the words would not come. How was he to phrase this, a letter to someone he's never met but heard so much about? It was difficult, trying to figure out how to tell a mother that her son was dead. He'd come to the priory to please his mother, to live a life of peace. This boy, he'd lived in bliss to serve the Nine, and this was how he was to be repaid?

He'd deal with this later.

A knock rang throughout his chamber, the door opening to reveal James and Nhiilaa. Grandmaster Jauffre pushed back on the desk and rose to greet them. They did not look happy.

"Have the spies been taken care of?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The pair exchanged a look and sighed simultaneously.

"Yes, they're dead," the Imperial said, nodding his head as he spoke.

"That's wonderful!" Jauffre exclaimed, relief flooding his veins. To his dismay, they retained their somber dispositions.

"Jauffre," the girl started, looking down at him. "We didn't kill them. We found them dead in their hideout. Murdered, in fact." The old man now looked amazingly weary, the full bearing of this news weighing down on him.

"Who do you think it is?" the monk asked, his voice laced with dread.

Nhiilaa spoke before James had the chance. "From the looks of it, it _could_ be the Dark Brotherhood, but I highly doubt it. The chances of this just being a coincidence--"

"Are astronomical," a man behind her finished. All three Blades turned to face the man who spoke. Their lord.

"Martin, do not concern yourself with such trivialities," the eldest amongst them tried to convince. The former priest shook his head. "You must concentrate your efforts on translating the Xarxes, not fretting over things that your Blades are well equipped to handle."

"If you'll forgive my impertinence, Grandmaster, but I must request to be treated as if I am actually of some use to our mutual endeavor, instead of being instructed to do things like a child. Excuse me if I'm wrong, but the last time I heard the Mysterium Xarxes was hardly a toy to be told to go and run along to," he said angrily. The monk sighed.

"I understand your frustration, really I do, but this is not something that is worthy of your attention at this moment--"

"Surely a murderer, one possibly amongst our midst is--"

"Quiet!" Nhiilaa's voice rang out above the arguing pair. "That's enough, you two. Jauffre, he's right. He is to be our emperor, and he does have the right to be kept informed as to the more serious issues of our operation." She paused for a moment. "However, that being said... Martin, if you don't expect to be treated as if you're a whining, sniveling prat, stop acting like one."

And with that, she turned and left, leaving all three men to stare at where she had stood, wondering what had just happened.


	20. Chapter 20

_And now you've seen the Septim heir for what he truly is. You've come to find that he is... unfit to rule. Nothing more than a child, despite the fact that he is your elder. In most respects, my dear, you are far, far superior to he, and have much more worldly experience. He may have cavorted with the Daedra, healed the sick, and posed as a pious man of the Nine, but he has no experience with battle, the harsh reality of losing a mother, and a friend. Of having to take the life of another close one with your own two hands, all in the name of surviving._

_He does not know what this is like._

_How can a man so naive, so childlike be expected to rule a whole empire successfully when he can barely hold his temper in the face of not being told every single event, events that don't have any pertinence to the job at hand and his role in it? You know that he cannot._

_And yet you still hold him up. You prop him up by doing his bidding, everything he asks of you, you do dutifully. What will he do when you are no longer there to support him? What if one of his tasks he sends you on gets you injured, or worse yet, killed? My dear little Dragonheart, the Septim heir cannot depend on you for all eternity. What a weak emperor he will make..._

–

The clang of the hammer, and roar of the flames behind her were now the only two things she could hear. Even she would admit, this was a welcome change from the nightmares that she'd been having for the past several nights. Sleep was not a gift at this point, and Nhiilaa gave up on it hours ago. Every time she shut her eyes, even if for a slight hope of rest, that voice loomed on the back of her consciousness, awaiting for her to let her guard down so that it could strike.

Blow after blow struck the ebony of her armor, hammering it out as straight as her skill allowed it. They were minor damages, but the forge calmed her down, and allowed for her thoughts to be clear for once. Or, at the very least, she could escape into her own mind without worry of her dreams haunting her.

She paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow, and in that moment she could hear voices on the opposite side of the door. That meant, most likely, that the inhabitants of the temple were about to awaken and begin their morning meal. Nhiilaa'd eaten hours ago. She had gone back to attempting to repair her armor when the door opened, a single shadow marring the perfect aura of light.

"Ah, there you are," the shadow said. Nhiilaa squinted to make out who it was, but the light was nearly blinding. "How long have you been down here?" It was Jauffre.

"A little over an hour," she lied.

"I see..." She could hear the doubt in his voice. "Martin believes that he's made some progress with the Mysterium Xarxes. You should speak with him. James is already with him." The girl nodded and set her hammer down.

The Great Hall was cold in comparison to the fantastic heat of the armory, and goosebumps prickled her flesh. In concordance with Jauffre's words, Martin sat at his table, James looming over him, staring at the Xarxes. The two Imperials looked up at her entrance, and nearly simultaneous raised an eyebrow at her appearance. She looked down, and made the realization that she was drenched with perspiration, and at this she could merely shrug.

"Where've you been?" James asked, crossing his arms.

"The armory. My suit's not going to repair itself," she said and sat across from Martin. "Jauffre said you had part of the Xarxes figured out?" The priest nodded.

"Yes. In the part of the ritual that I've deciphered, it says that there are four items needed to create a portal to Camoran's Paradise. I've figured out the first of them: 'the blood of a Daedra lord.' Daedric artifacts have been said to be formed from the essence of a Daedric lord, from whence they derive their power. Obviously that's what we need, then," Martin said matter-of-factly. The Nord snorted and leaned forward.

"And just _where_ in Tamriel do you expect me to find one of those? It's not like I can just walk up to any of the Daedric shrines and say 'Oh yes, dear me could you help me foil one of Mehrune's rather annoying schemes by giving me one of your greatest artifacts? That's a peach, thank you. Have fun with mayhem and destruction, or whatever you do!' That'd be ridiculous," scoffed the girl.

"Well, not in so many words, and I'm sure that you could do without calling them a peach, but yes, that is what I think you should do."

"You know, I'm beginning to think that I'm losing my hearing, Martin. For a second I thought that you were agreeing with me when it was quite obvious that I was being sarcastic. You know sarcasm, yes? That thing tone of voice that I employ when I say one thing and mean another? I would have thought that you've spent enough time with me to pick up on the subtle nuances of my manner of speaking. My accent must be thicker than I thought."

"I'm fairly certain that he was being serious, Nhiilaa," said James after a moment. She turned to him.

"Well then he's a damned loon," she answered flatly.

"Nhiilaa..." She stood and sighed.

"Fine, fine, I'll get you your damned artifact from your damned daedra so you can do your damned ritual so you can save your damned empire. But I won't be happy about it."

"Oh woe to us that the great Nhiilaa Ijorta is unhappy with something!" James said, rolling his eyes. "There's a first time for everything, I suppose." Martin let out a short laugh, before stifling it due to a harsh glare on the part of the Nord.

"Now, I have a book here called--"

"Martin, before I do anything, I am going to require a bath. That means before I read one of your books on cults or what ever else you'll have me read. If you haven't noticed, I smell like a forge. Now I will take my leave of you two and rid myself of this foul odor," she said, faking a bow.

–

_The tumblers slid home, the trap door to Arvena Thelas' basement opened with a loud creaking sound, and a rather filthy and scared Nordic girl emerged. She squinted at the bright light, which seemed blinding after being locked in a rat-infested basement for an hour or so. Three boys stood before her: two identical Nords and a Redguard. At the sight of her, the laughs they'd apparently been repressing burst out, and all three doubled over, their sides in stitches. Tears formed in her eyes, but she bit them back, instead allowing for her cheeks to puff out, like they always did._

_"I hate you three! Wait 'til my father gets word of this! Uncle Newheim is going to tan your hides when my father tells him what you three did, Hogar, Viguri. And just _you_ wait when Roan finds out, Azzan. Just you wait!" she screamed, arms flailing wildly as she did so. This, of course, made their laughter redouble, leading to more and more frustration on her part. _

_"Lookit Nhiiler with 'er fancy words. She's thinkin' that she's so smart," heckled the eldest of the three, Hogar. "Just 'cos 'er ma'll send 'er off to that sissy Mages Guildto learn magic an' maths an' history an'... an' stuff."_

_"Well you could go too if _you_ were the least bit intelligent," Nhiilaa quipped, sticking her tongue out at him. "Ain't my fault you're a stinkin' idiot." The more and more angry she got, the more her refined manner of speaking slipped into a childish verbatim._

_"Oh so now you think you're so clever!" he snapped back, his cheeks turning red. The lone girl decided that it was time to leave, and attempted to escape to her where she thought her father would be: the docks._

_"Hey, you get back here!" both Azzan and Viguri yelled as all three boys chased after her. Her shoes made loud sounds as she ran ahead of them. The boys, not suprisingly, being older and quicker, easily caught up with her at the west end of the dock._

_"You stink, Nhiiler," said Hogar with a twisted grin. "Maybe you should take a bath!"_

_And she fell into the water below._

_Now, she wasn't a poor swimmer, but the waters in the Anvil port were notorious for being the home of schools of slaughterfish. Nhiilaa knew this. Thus, the Nord girl, who prided herself on being able to handle herself in all sorts of dangerous situations, or so she thought, began to scream with all the might her lungs could muster._

_Over the splashes she made, in the midst of her panic, she could hear the hurried scuffling of shoes, presumably her good-for-nothing cousins and that rat Azzan. A second later, a hand gripped her by the shirt and lifted her from the murky water. Nhiilaa flopped unceremoniously onto the boards of the dock, a mixture of sobs and coughs reverberating from deep in her chest._

_"What in the good name of Ysmir do you think you're doing pushing _my_ daughter into the port?!" roared the familiar voice of her father. She'd heard that voice only once before, and that was enough for a lifetime. "You'd better thank your lucky stars you aren't _my _children, because I'd beat you within an inch of your damned lives!" Nhiilaa calmed herself and sat up, and saw Newheim the Portly, followed closely by Roan of Hammerfell, both wearing very, very worried expressions on their faces. Ingar and Newheim began to 'converse' in the traditional Nordic style: Screaming at each other in their native tongue, nearly coming to blows. Apparently, they reached some sort of understanding, because Newheim proceeded to box his sons' ears mercilessly._

–

"You took for_ever_," whined James as they rode down the hillside. Morihaus snorted at him and cantered ahead, his rider rolling her eyes as she attempted to braid her saturated hair.

"Well I'm sorry, I'd like to be at least a bit presentable. I don't really enjoy roaming about the country-side absolutely filthy," she said. He spurred his horse, Bala, to ride alongside her again.

"All I'm saying is that you could've taken less time to get the same result."

"... You haven't attempted to bathe in that icy water, have you. Because really, I wouldn't be at all surprised. We have warmer waters in _Skyrim_. And our water is frozen solid." Again she took the lead.

"If you're insinuating that I don't bathe, you'd be wrong. I'm just smart enough to heat up the water first, unlike some people I've been forced to acquaint myself with," the Imperial scoffed sarcastically.

"Oh, really? And here I thought that time was of the essence! Silly me. I must've been mistaken," she laughed, and spurred Morihaus into a gallop. They rode for an hour or so until the sun was high in the sky, and hunger pains gnawed at both of their stomachs. After dismounting from atop their horses, they sat down underneath a large oak tree and began their lunch. It was only until they were mid-way through their meager meal of bread and cheese when they came to the realization that they had absolutely no idea where they were headed.

"You did look at the book Martin said for you to read, right?" James asked between mouthfuls. The look on her face told him that no, she had not. He groaned loudly.

"I thought you were going to!"

"He was trying to give it to _you_, you do realize that, right? That's supposed to serve as some sort of agreement that _you_, the person he is trying to make read it, would indeed actually read it!" She shrugged.

"Well, we're about an hour or so away from... I think Hircine's shrine? Or is it Melphala's? Maybe it was Molag Bal, when I think about it. I used to know where the shrines were," replied the girl happily. Her companion paled at the thought of roaming about the woods, and shook his head fervently.

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not going traipsing about the woods, looking for a shrine that you don't know exactly where is, that's for a Daedra lord that you can't seem to remember for the life of you. For all I know, it would be for Sanguine, or Azura... or Hermaeus Mora!"

"Wrong. Sanguine is by Leyawiin, Azura by Bruma, northwest about a mile, and Hermaeus Mora is somewhere in the general vicinity of Bruma. Somewhere. I'm fairly certain it's Hircine, this side of the road, anyway," she said.

"... Still. No. I have some contacts in the Imperial City we could talk to, find out where to go to find a nice, harmless Daedric prince... like Sheogorath!" He was rather nervous about the whole ordeal, she could hear it in his voice. Nhiilaa laughed loudly at the mention of the Mad God.

"Sheogorath? _Harmless_?! Are you a complete idiot?!" she said in between giggles. "He is _anything_ but harmless. All of his followers may be crazier than a Bosmer on skooma and moon sugar, but Sheogorath is most definitely not tame. He'd be more likely to rip out your innards and skip rope with them as a reward than actually give you one of his artifacts! Besides, I don't want to go that far south. If I remember right, his shrine is down by Bravil."

"Well fine, but I'd still prefer a second opinion on this. And since _someone_ didn't bother to read Martin's blasted book, and I don't really feel like trekking all the way back to Bruma, I think we should just hightail it out to the Imperial City. Arcane University, in fact. I know it'd be difficult to get in, but I think--"

"It won't be. Trust me," sighed the Nord, remembering that short while ago. While she would have preferred not to return so soon, it appeared that she had no choice. "We might as well, I suppose. It's not like it could hurt much. There are a lot of daedric experts over in that area, after all."

The sun shone down brightly as the two of them as they remounted and rode back toward that nearly cursed city.


	21. Chapter 21

_Author's Note: It's a bit of a short chapter this week, and it's a day late, I know. I apologize for that. Anyways, I hope people remember this new character from his previous, albeit brief, encounter with Nhiilaa earlier in the story._

* * *

"Let's just get one thing straight, Peleius," Nhiilaa said as they stood outside of the Arcane University. They'd been standing on the front steps for quite a while now, and the sun was starting to set. The familiar pain she'd experienced during the last excursion was dull, but there none the less. "I'm not really supposed to be here." James shrugged.

"Neither'm I. It's not like I'm a mage or anything," he said. "But I do know some people here who might be able to help us." She sighed.

"As do I," mumbled the girl, and opened the door. The two stepped inside of the lobby, for what seemed to be too soon since her last visit here. "So, where did you say that your friend would be?"

"I don't think that I did, actually," her companion whispered to her, apparently in fear that a dozing Raminous Polus would overhear them. "But he should be around here somewhere. He said that he didn't get out of the Arch-Mage's tower much anymore. What's that?" He asked, pointing at the main source of light: the arcane circle on the floor that was pulsating with a purple glow.

"What? The teleportation pad? That leads to the Council's lobby I think... It'd be practically suicide to try and go up there, you ninny. At least three of the members of the Council of Mages will be up there. At _least_. Raminus may be down here, but I can almost guarantee you that Irlav Jarol and Caranya are up there, not to mention the Arch-Mage himself. There is absolutely no way you'd get me to go up there--"

That was about when James stepped onto the teleportation pad and disappeared in a flash of the same light. Nhiilaa swore under her breath and followed shortly after him.

"What did I just tell you?!" she hissed at him, stepping off of the pad. She grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and spun him around, catching him off guard and nearly sending him toppling over.

"Watch it! Magical transportation and I do not agree, apparently. Why aren't you all woozy too?" he asked quietly as he attempted to regain his equilibrium.

"Used to it. Now, since you've dragged me up here into your hair-brain scheme as well, find your friend quickly, or I'll be_ very_ angry with you, Peleius." Her eyes adjusted to the lack of light to see that the room was devoid of all human life, except for the two of them. Of course, she thought and rolled her eyes. "Doesn't look like your friend's here. Why am I not surprised?"

"He'll be here, trust me. If I know him, and I believe that I do," said the Imperial, who sat down at the round table near the center of the room. "I suppose we'll have to just wait for him. It's not like we can do much else. We've come too far to turn around and go back to Bruma."

"You really think that we can just sit up here without the Council noticing us? You've obviously never been to the Arcane University, James," she scoffed. James' eyes narrowed at her.

"Oh? And you have? Forgive my disbelief, but I find it hard to believe that someone who's dedicated their life to fighting to be the first in line to sign up for the Mages Guild." She was about to rebuke his accusations when a glimmer caught the attention of her peripheral vision: Someone was entering the room. The person materialized fully...

It was most certainly not who she had been expecting.

"You!" she and the apprentice who had questioned her so much on her last visit gasped simultaneously.

"You are not allowed to be here," the man snapped. "I have half a mind to go to the Arch-Mage straight away, seeing as how you _impersonated_ a powerful guild mage who's been dead for nearly--"

"Seven years," a voice from behind Nhiilaa and James interrupted. "That's quite enough, Isaan." Isaan looked abashed as he attempted to defend himself. He stopped short, and his face fell. A smile spread on Nhiilaa's lips as she turned around to face the newcomer.

"Dear lord," she started. "They made _you _the Arch-Mage? What in the blazes was the Council thinking?" There, behind her, stood Hannibal Traven, whose hands were crossed over his chest and who wore a very stern look on his face. A moment of silence passed, neither James nor Isaan willing to dare break it. Suddenly, both Hannibal Traven and Nhiilaa burst into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, my dear, it is good to see you again," the Arch-Mage laughed as he stepped forward to grasp Nhiilaa in a tight hug.

"Sir?" Isaan gasped. "You _know_ this... this girl?" The old man nodded.

"Know her? I taught her! A stubborn little thing if there ever was one," said the Breton. He smiled. "But with great potential. Peleius, if you would, please get our guests something to eat, and to drink as well. I should very much like to hear about why my pupil has decided to visit after all these years." Now it was Nhiilaa's turn to whirl back around to face Isaan.

"Peleius?" asked the girl, directing the question at James. In response, he merely shrugged and sighed.

"Nhiilaa, this is my twin brother Isaan. Isaan, this is my friend Nhiilaa," he said, shaking his head. Nhiilaa approached the both of them, and could see why Isaan had looked so familiar: They were identical, save for the way they wore their hair and manner of dress. James, on the one hand, kept his brown locks shorter, but they looked as if they hadn't seen a brush in days. Isaan, on the other, wore his in a tight ponytail at the nape of the neck, and wore the traditional green apprentice's robes. Both had the same green eyes and pale skin, though there was more merriment in James' than Isaan's.

"Well, now that that's over, Isaan, the drinks?" Traven interrupted. James' twin bowed and stepped into the pulsating light, disappearing once again. "Now, Nhiilaa, let us sit and you can tell me why you're hear and what you've been up to." All three people sat down at the circular table. Nhiilaa stretched for a moment and then propped her head up on her hands.

"Let's see... James and I are... on a mission of sorts, for whom I can't quite say, but we came here looking for his 'friend', whom I now know was most likely his brother, because we need to find a Daedric shrine. We are in dire need of an artifact from one of the Daedra lords, but my memory is a bit... fuzzy on where each shrine is," stated the Nord succinctly.

"Anything specific?" the Breton asked.

"Nothing too dangerous," James interrupted quickly. "... Sir," he added, embarrassed. Traven leaned closer in, looking at James full in the face.

"My boy," he started. "There is no such thing as a Daedric prince that is 'nothing too dangerous.' They wouldn't be princes if they were not the most horrifying of the daedra. Do not be fooled by their seemingly demureness, if they have any at all. That will only lead to your slow, and painful death." Silence, followed by a bleak mood. Nhiilaa cleared her throat in order to try and restore the status quo. Isaan reappeared, placing drinks and plates carried in on the tendrils of telekinesis in front of everyone, including himself, and sat.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Vaernmina," the girl stated. Traven looked darkly at her.

"Nhiilaa... you know what a vile temptress that woman is." She nodded as she ate, and the Arch-Mage sighed. "I hope you know what you're getting into, girl. Very well, I'll help you. Tomorrow."

"Time is of the essence, sir," she implored. "We need to get this artifact as quickly as possible."

"I understand that, Nhiilaa. But I have other pressing matters that need to be taken care of, and I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait. Besides, all Daedra lords require a sacrifice of some sort. You might want to dig around in the Archives or find a Daedric scholar to tell you what Vaernmina would require of you," he said in a pained tone. The Breton stood, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I would appreciate it if you and James joined me for dinner tonight, and you are free to use the Mages Quarters as your own for the night." Nhiilaa sighed, but begrudgingly agreed to it. The Arch-Mage crossed the room to a second pad, and disappeared, leaving Nhiilaa alone with the twin brothers.

"So," she mused. "You have a twin... that you felt it was alright not to tell me about, and to lie to me and say that it was your 'friend' we were meeting." Nhiilaa took a sip of the wine placed before her.

"I was going to tell you, eventually," he said, lowering his head. "I didn't think that it was that important, really..." Isaan rolled his eyes at his brother.

"Considering that she initially lied to me as to who she really was, I don't think that she has the right to be angry about your trickery, James, though I am," the mage said. "Really. Where did you get a name like _Hjotra_. According to Caranya, she wasn't particularly well liked by people here." A brief flicker of anger illuminated Nhiilaa's eyes for a moment, but she choked it down with another sip. Her goblet made a slight metallic sound on the polished wood as she set it down, giving Isaan a cold stare.

"Hjotra is my mother. I'll have you know that Caranya is quite possibly the worst person to ask for correct information from, seeing as how she and her sister Carahil both have quite the bias against me. My mother was well-liked amongst the mages here, and second to only Irlav Jarol when it came to Alyeid studies. Kindly refrain from slandering her good name, if you will, otherwise I would be forced to become very cross," warned the Nord. The Imperial rolled his eyes.

"And despite your mother's... clout, I see you couldn't get yourself instated as a full mage. That's a wonder, considering how high the Arch-Mage seems to hold you and your mother in esteem," he said, taking a step back. Quickly, James stood between them before there could be a repetition of the incident at the guardhouse.

"If you two are finished with your pissing match, which I'm certain you are at this point otherwise you both will do things that you will regret, I believe that it is time for Nhiilaa to head to the Mystic Archives, and for Isaan to show me around the University," he said. "Otherwise, she and I will have to go wandering around the forest looking for Vaernmina's shrine on our own and quite possibly get mauled to death by bears, and Mother would not be at all pleased to hear that my dear brother would not, for my sake, assist us by leaving my companion to her work." Isaan glared at Nhiilaa, then at James, and then dragged his twin onto the teleportation pad, leaving Nhiilaa alone inside the Council Chambers with her thoughts.

She supposed that she should head back to the Mystic Archives and ask Tar-Meena for her expertise in this area, but somehow, it did not feel like the correct course of action in this particular situation. The girl looked over at the second teleportation pad, and before she could think otherwise, found herself stepping onto it.


	22. Chapter 22

Somehow, she'd expected Hannibal Traven's chambers to be elaborate than they were. It was not the case that the room was plain, far from it, in fact, but she'd expected something... more. Vaulted ceilings, marble stonework from floor to ceiling, grandiose and elegant stained glass windows... that was the type of thing that was the image conjured inside the mind when one thought of the quarters of the Arch-Mage of all of Cyrodiil.

Instead, she was greeted by a severe lack of windows, a gratuitous amount of candles, and mahogany wood. Artifacts stretched throughout every area of the room, all locked away in glass cases on beds of crushed velvet, and bookshelves crammed to the brim with knowledge spanned from the floor to the ceiling, all around the room. Traven's bed and nightstand seemed out of place, simple in both design and decoration. Three or four chests inhabited the rare area where there was neither bookshelf nor glass case, and a desk sat off to one side. It was at the desk where the Arch-Mage sat, his head resting in his palms. Nhiilaa couldn't tell whether he was sleeping, or in deep thought. For some reason, she doubted that it was the former.

The Arch-Mage did not look up as she pulled a spare chair up to the edge of the desk and sat down in it. Nor did he see her place her chin on the back of her hands on the desk and stare at him blankly. Perhaps he was sleeping, after all.

He finally looked at her when he reached out for his decanter of wine and, realizing that it was not there, moved to go find it. He stared at her, as if attempting to decide whether she was actually in the room, or just a figment of his imagination.

"What are you doing here?" Traven asked her, apparently making up his mind that she was indeed real. This question was a bit of a problem, seeing as how she hadn't actually thought up a reason for her barging into his chambers, at least not a good one.

"You seemed... distracted," she said slowly, hoping the lie would stick. "Is it anything I should be aware of, in case I can assist you?" He raised an eyebrow, but left her motives unquestioned. After a moment or so of internal contemplation, the Arch-Mage sighed.

"Let it suffice to say that it looks as if the Guild is about to enter into a time of transition, and I am afraid that if I do not act appropriately, some very... bad things could potentially happen." In addition to him forgetting that she was not an idiot, Traven also seemed to have forgotten that she was not seven years old anymore. Frustration rose in her throat as she realized that he was talking down to her as if she was incapable of understanding what was going on, like a child.

"Master Traven," began the Nord cautiously. It was one thing to argue with the Arch-Mage, which was difficult enough on its own, but another thing entirely to argue with a dear friend of her mother's. "I don't think that you completely understand my position in this manner. I am offering you my aid in any way I can, not only as a member of the Guild, albeit only a lowly Associate, but as a former student who owes you much as it is. My mother cared deeply about this institution, and about your friendship with her, and I believe that it would pain her to see you attempt to handle this situation on your own, or with limited help when other help is being extended to you, when it is quite obvious to everyone that you can _not_ do this alone. Now, please, allow me to help." The refined tone of her speech surprised Traven for a spell, and for one brief moment, he looked at her, and Nhiilaa Ijorta reminded him of her deceased mother. A swath of moist tears spread over his eyes at the memory of his dead comrade, but he shook it away underneath her critical, yet somehow still soft, stare. The look on her face did not allow for silence, instead, it demanded a response from the wizened old wizard.

"I will tell you what I can," the Breton said slowly. "Not because I do not think that you can't help with it, but because the full knowledge of the situation would put you into grave danger, and that isn't something you mother would allow me to do. There are some things, however, that I will now be forced to tell you that, because of matters beyond my control, I cannot trust, even to the Council of Mages. It is a good thing that you and the Guild are nearly separate entities, because if you were any closer to it, I would not be able to divulge this sort of information to you. This cannot leave this room, Nhiilaa. I need you to swear to me that you will not tell _anyone_ of this, not even your father." Nhiilaa bit her lip for a moment: it would be difficult for her to not speak of such matters to her father, and she was unaccustomed to keeping secrets.

It seemed as if there was a pressing need for the keeping of them, all of a sudden. These were dark times, indeed. Reluctantly, she agreed.

"Good," said the mage. "Now... where to begin..."

–

The Arcane University was a place of vast knowledge, where fledgling mages and scholars enter to educate themselves on the workings of the physical, and magickal, realms, and turn to use that education for the benefit of the rest of the Empire. The glorious gardens that could only be rivaled by the royal Elven Gardens, the expansive archives of information, and all the experts on nearly every subject condensed into one place, this surely meant that the University was the pinnacle of higher education.

Of course, this was all in theory. From everything that James had seen in the duration of his brother's, quite frankly, duller-than-dirt tour, that may have been what the Arcane University had been constructed to be, but certainly not what it had become. Instead of students learning, he saw them running errands for scholars, occasionally attending a rare lecture in which the attending scholar would say something along the lines of "We've been thinking about this for a while, but we have no idea what these relics actually do, nor do we actually care enough about them to dedicate the time and energy to find out." There was a lot of that sort of attitude polluting the University, James thought blandly. With all the bragging, all the knowledge available to them, the Mages of the Arcane University did a lot of talking about researching or educating, and very little to no action to the affirmative.

"... And here we have the Praxographical Center, where members of the Guild are able to craft their own spells. For obvious reasons, the only Center like this is in the University, otherwise Associates may be able to run about willy-nilly, and that would be absolute chaos," Isaan bragged. James could tell that his twin was rather proud of the fact that he could gain access to the Prana... Praxalaffical... whatever that building was called, from the tone of his voice. Of course, James did not have the heart to remind Isaan that Evoker was not as high of a rank as he liked to think.

"Fascinating," replied James. It was painfully obvious that he was bored out of his mind, though not to his brother, who was so absorbed in his own world that he did not notice that James was in the process of attempting to catch the attention of a particularly attractive red-haired Breton mage. Unfortunately, she was oblivious to his tactics, and thus he decided to give up the attempt, at least for the moment. "What do you say about heading to the Mystic Archives and meeting up with Nhiilaa there?"

Isaan rolled his eyes. "Just how did you meet this girl, James? Planning on bringing her home to Mother? I don't think she'd approve, to be honest," he scoffed. A sharp jab to the ribs served as an introduction to the reply.

"She's more intelligent than you think, you twit. Besides," the elder twin snapped. "I wouldn't marry her if you _paid_ me. She might crush me while I slept. Ours is _purely_ a working relationship. So Mother can be spared _one_ conniption fit for the week, as I'm sure you'll write to her all about this while I'm off traveling the country-side."

"Mother is rather upset that you haven't found enough time to write her, you know."

"Tell her to suck it up," he sighed, immediately regretting her words. "Don't you dare quote me on that, or all your little friends here will know all about that summer at Aunt Magdeline's vineyard. You remember, right? With that _very_ fetching servant? When you--" A clap of the hand to his mouth muffled out the next portion of James' speech.

"Yes, yes, I remember. And it would be very kind of you to _forget_ it."

"But then I wouldn't have any leverage over you for anything, my dearest younger brother. Then again I could simply use any other time anywhere else; it's nearly impossible for you to not embarrass yourself wherever you go." The sentence was punctuated with a chortle of laughter on Jame's part, much to Isaan's chagrin.

"I'm fairly certain that I just might hate you, James."

–

"Falcar? I can't say that I'm too terribly surprised, Traven," Nhiilaa said, taking a sip of wine from her fresh goblet.

"Well, to be quite honest with you, I wasn't at all surprised that he was a necromancer. What I am surprised is that he would be so idiotic as to store black soul gems in his own rooms. Anyone with half a brain could have gone there and found it, and that's what happened. I'm more... disappointed in my lack of action before than I am anything else," the aging mage said sadly. "I do not wish to have these gems in my possession for much longer. I've informed the Council that Falcar was a rogue member, but obviously I left the black soul gems out. There was no reason to inform them of their existence, and the more people that know, the more that people would begin to doubt my judgment. Hmm..." A familiar sparkle lit up Traven's eyes, and he rose from his seat and crossed the chamber in three quick steps. After several minutes of searching, he came to find what he had been looking for. With a smile on his face, he returned to his chair, placing a thick stack of papers in front of the Nord, who only raised an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"There was a Journeyman at the start of my term as Arch-Mage who came to me with this very stack of papers. He was very brilliant, you see, and wanted to become an expert on the Daedric princes. In order to do this, he traversed all of Cyrodiil to all of the shrines, assimilating into the varieties of cults, and he gave me all the information that he had collected a week or so after I took the office. Unfortunately for him, he disappeared after he left for his journey to Hermaeus Mora's shrine, but he left me the rest of his research. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, but I think I remember something about Vaernmina's sacrifice in his notes," grinned Traven.

Both Nhiilaa and Traven spent the next half of an hour or so rifling through the poor lad's notes, attempting to decipher the scrawling sentences that, at some points, transcended several pages. Neither person spoke a word aloud, that is until the Nord stumbled across the text that the Breton had been referring to.

"'Pertaining to the sacrificial rite of the Daedric prince Vaermina,'" she read aloud, grabbing Traven's interest. "He talks about the history of Vaernmina for quite a while... Did he expect you to publish this for him or something? Ah, here we have it... 'Of course, as Vaermina is a prince, she too demands a sacrifice. The item needed for her rite would be one soul gem. It does not matter if the soul gem is filled or not, but it must be black, thus making completing her ritual rather difficult to do.'"

"Excellent," the Arch-Mage exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Something seems to be working in your favor, my dear, whether it be the Nine, or Vaernmina herself wishing to speak with you personally. I would be delighted if you would take the required gem for your journey, my dear." Nhiilaa looked at him skeptically.

"I thought you said Falcar had two..." Traven waved this comment off.

"Getting rid of one black soul gem is far easier than getting rid of two, Nhiilaa. After all, it is far more logical for there to be one freak explosion in the Praxographical Center than there are to be two in a short time period," he said with a wink, causing Nhiilaa to laugh. After the laughter died off, Traven stood again, this time approaching a large chest. He produced a key from some pocket inside of his sleeve and slid it into the lock. The tumblers slid home, and the chest opened with a long squeaking sound, signifying the chest's obvious disuse. "Oh dear..."

"What?" The exclamation worried the girl.

"It seems that I will not have to destroy one after all... There's only one of them left," he said, his voice laced thickly with concern. The chair that Nhiilaa sat at clattered loudly to the floor as she stood up and nearly ran to where Traven stooped over. Indeed, there was only one gem in the otherwise empty container. "Damn it all to Oblivion!" Nevertheless, he pressed the remaining gem into her hand.

They looked at each other for a moment before Nhiilaa nodded, slipping the foul thing into her pocket.


	23. Chapter 23

The din of bored fingers drumming on a wooden table resounded throughout the Mystic Archives. James looked up at the matron of the vast library, and she did not look pleased. It was a look that he had seen many a time, from many a woman. He smiled nervously, but stopped the rapping of his fingers, to which his brother could only roll his eyes.

Somehow, just somehow, the silence was even more awkward.

Suddenly, a loud banging sound from downstairs, followed by a quick succession of equally loud footsteps running up the steps, prompting an irritated hiss from Tar-Meena. Before she could get up, however, the second door opened, and one Nordic lass entered the room. It was obvious to everyone in the room that she was in a hurry. She motioned to the elder of the two brothers, who moved to join her. As did Isaan, but Nhiilaa shook her head.

"You stay here," she said. The two Blades turned, and left. Neither one spoke, the girl leading the Imperial towards the Waterfront. The pace did not die down until they entered a warehouse, and James was amazed that no one had seen the two of them enter the building. Nhiilaa placed herself on a crate in an obscure corner, and finally, the girl spoke. "We have a problem."

"That's not what we need to hear, right about now. We need _good _news, Nhiilaa. Good news. Let's stick with the happy, alright?" said James. To his chagrin, the girl shook her head vicariously.

"It seems that our little 'friend' is now two for two," she frowned. "Except now they've targeted the Mages Guild, and turned to espionage rather than straight murder." She pulled the black soul gem from her pocket and showed it to him. "This is a special sort of soul gem. According to a Guild member from two years ago, they're needed to summon the Daedric prince Vaernmina. The Arch-Mage had two of these in his possession, but when he gave it to me, this was the only one left. Do you understand _why_ this is so dire?"

"... Because that means that someone is stealing from the Arcane University? Sure, that's a shame, but it's probably a coincidence." The Nord laughed hallowly.

"The question is not 'why did someone steal from the Arcane University,' James. It is 'why did they only steal one?' From what I understand, you have to _make_ black soul gems. You can't buy them from the Guild. The only mages that would ever use these are necromancers. As necromancy is banned by the Mages Guild, a thief that knew about these gems would know the price that they would fetch in the right circles. If this was... coincidence, as you would so have put it, there would not be a gem in my hand now. No. James, someone _knew_ that we would need this gem, though I didn't even know myself until I stumbled upon this with Traven. That means that someone must have known that we were going to see Vaernmina.

"I want you to think for a moment. Did I _tell_ you before I told anyone else that I wanted to see Vaernmina? Because the idea hadn't occurred to me until I had walked into the lobby this afternoon. No one was in the room other than you, Traven, your brother, and I." The conversation was not going in a direction that James particularly liked. "So, what I'm tempted to believe is that someone is trying to either stop us, or in their own convoluted way, trying to help us. I think that this person, whoever it is, wants to get to Vaernmina first, and get the artifact. And, that means that someone is either stalking us with a _very_ good invisibility spell, one that can even avoid detect life spells, or--"

"Someone is in your head," James finished. "That would be... that would be very, very bad. That means that they know where Martin is, and where the--" Nhiilaa cut him off by pressing a finger to his lips.

"Hush. If they _are_, then you don't really want to be saying it aloud. I don't know what you were about to say, and I do not want to. So don't say it." James nodded in understanding, and handed her the stone once more. "I think that... we need to leave as soon as we possibly can. It's too late now to leave, though. Early tomorrow morning would be best, before sun-up." Again, the Imperial nodded his head.

The two sat in silence for what seemed to be an eternity. There were many things that needed to be said, but neither could say any of it, for fear that they may compromise their condition. Of course, the feeling that this was a completely ridiculous hypothesis lurked on the backs of their respective subconsciousnesses, but they were both unwilling to think of what else in Oblivion could be happening.

–

_"And that is all there is to a simple convalescence spell, Nhii-- Will you _please_ pay attention?" Traven snapped finally, after explaining the spell for the umpteenth time. The girl yawned, obviously bored._

_"I am, I am. I understand. Really, I do, Master Traven," the girl sighed, staring out of the window. At her innocence and naivety, Traven regained his composure, and let a small smile cross his face. "It's just all so..."_

_"Dull?" the mage finished for her. Nhiilaa nodded fervently. "Well, I'm sorry for that. But you have to master the dull things before you can even hope to attempt the more difficult spells. Now, try the spell again, please." He placed a heavy emphasis on the word 'please.' The girl turned to the cat in the open chest with a sigh. Traven had found it limping along as he took his morning walk, and had thought it to be a perfect subject for her spells. It was not so injured that it would die, but a large gash plagued its front paw, and a nick on its ear still oozed fresh blood onto the feline's snow white fur. Bright blue eyes looked up at her expectantly, and the cat let out of shrill call of annoyance intwixt with a mild pain as she scooped it up into her lap._

_The young girl's hands glowed blue for a moment or two, passing over the animal's leg and ear. The resonating light faded, and the wounds on the poor creature were gone. In surprise, the cat looked around for a moment, before deciding not to think better of it, and started to lick itself clean. Nhiilaa refused to let the cat from her lap, and likewise the animal seemed reluctant to leave her presence. As the lesson continued, the girl showered the cat in affection, earning her many a reprimanding from Traven for being distracted._

_It became blatantly obvious that Nhiilaa desperately wanted to take the cat home with her, and the mage could see that, even in the short span of time, the feline had become accustomed to the girl. However, Ijorta would never approve. Her mother did not think that her child was responsible enough to take care of such an animal, and told her so in surprisingly soft tones. The sadness and longing that the girl's face expressed nearly broke Traven's heart, and before he knew it, he found himself offering to keep the cat for her, so that she could see him anytime that she wished. Delight blossomed on her face, and she hugged the cat tight._

_"Well?" the Breton asked expectantly. Confused, she looked up at him. "What are you going to name him?" Nhiilaa thought for a moment._

_"I think that... Alduin is alright?" she said, after a moment of biting her lip. Traven laughed; of course she of all people would name a mere cat after one of the Nordic gods._

–

Alduin yawned and stretched by Nhiilaa's feet. She stooped down, and scratched the cat behind his ears before she straighted back up. Slowly, she took a sip from the tankard of strong tea she'd requested. The dining hall was empty, save for herself, the cat, and vast piles of food on the table. This particular hall was one of the Arch-Mage's hidden rooms in the Tower; she assumed that there were many more, but that they were nearly impossible to find, unless one knew where to look for them. This hall was hidden by what looked to be a stone wall from the outside, and one could touch the wall without passing through it, but when guided by the Arch-Mage himself, the stones seemed to melt away on contact, only to replace themselves as they passed through.

A large and expansive window made up one entire wall. Like the rest of the room, it was impossible to know that this hall even existed from the outside; to onlookers, it just looked like a bunch of brick. Traven said, with a laugh, that every so often a bird hits his window, but for the most part he thought that the illusions fooled everybody but the animals near the University. Nhiilaa stood by the window, tankard in hand, overlooking the Imperial City. At night, it was a glorious sight: the city expansed below her, torches illuminating the soft, black night. It seemed that, to the Nord, the buildings glowed with a certain luminescence, something that you could not see from the ground. Her eyes were drawn to White Gold Tower, in particular, standing erect and tall, lit from the inside so that the windows served as portals to the inside realm, the torches flickering softly on their stands. Like the spokes of a wagon's wheel, the City bustled with a new life that one did not see in the day: Scholars talking softly in the light provided by flame, several sitting in dim places, on raised areas with their telescopes, watching the heavens. It was a shame that the Orrery was still in disrepair, she thought sadly. Her eyes drew themselves upwards, and she saw the guardsmen patrol the Arboretum, walking amidst the statues of the Imperial gods, seeming dreadfully small in comparison.

Again, her eyes drifted, this time on the largest building, save for the three towers. The Arena. Sadness caught her, not in her throat, but in her stomach, and she dropped the silver tankard, the contents splashing to the floor. The snowy feline flitted away from her in shock as she dropped to her knees, a hand clutched to her abdomen. Years seemed to crawl by as the agony slowly washed away, creeping to a dull throbbing sensation. Now, she could hear men's laughter, and tried to regain her composition as the three men, James, Isaan, and Traven, entered the hall.

"Gods' blood," Traven whispered, seeing his pupil collapsed in a heap on the floor. Immediately, James and Isaan ran to her, and each of the brothers took one of her arms in their hands and attempted to assist her to her feet. To their sadness, she shook the help off angrily.

"I'm fine, I just tripped over Alduin. He got caught as I was trying to return to my seat," said the Nord, a weak, pathetic, and reassuring smile plastered on her face. "I'm afraid that I've lost my tea, however." The Arch-Mage scrutinized her face carefully, and despite her towering over him, the slight man seemed eons high.

"It's no matter. It's just a spot of tea. Are you _certain_ that you are 'fine?'" he asked, words coming out slow and deliberate. The smile reinforced itself as she nodded.

"Yes, I'm absolutely fine. Though, I may not be if I am left for want of food any longer," she said, sitting at the table. Though skeptical of her condition, Traven sat at the head, and James and Isaan sat next to each other, across from Nhiilaa. The meal began in silence.

–

Nhiilaa sighed contentedly. "That was a meal fit for a god," said the happy Nord. "Sir," she tacked on, in remembrance of whom she addressed. He waved the formalities away with a motion of his hand. Alduin stretched in her lap for a moment, before hopping down to the floor and sitting expectantly at the 'door' of the hall. After letting out of profuse yawn, the Nord stood. "I'm exhausted... I think it is time for me to retire for the night."

"I am in full agreement," said Isaan, and both he and James stood. Nhiilaa gave Traven a tight hug, and the twins bowed in synchronization before all three made to leave the hall.

"Ah, a word, James?" the Arch-Mage spoke up as he reached the wall. Somehow, James did not feel at all at ease with Hannibal Traven's tone of voice. As he walked back toward the Arch-Mage, he couldn't help but think that he was about to be heading towards his grave, or something far, far worse. "You are Nhiilaa's... traveling companion and friend, are you not?"

"I suppose you could call us that... I'm not sure that we could strictly be considered--"

"Do you honestly think that she fell before dinner?" Traven's voice went from gilded with niceties to one of utmost chill. James blinked for a moment, confused.

"She _said_ she tripped, and I think I believe her. Is it so hard to think that she fell? She is not infallible you know," the Imperial said, almost offended. To his surprise, the aged Breton chuckled for a moment before rising. He turned his back to the Blade and moved to the window, the city below in a quiet reverie.

"You have never seen the girl fight, have you?" he commented. It may have been James' imagination, but was that sadness he heard? The Blade shook his head. "It was two years ago that I took the office of Arch-Mage, and nearly three months after that, Nhiilaa became the Arena's Grand Champion. Now--"

"Wait... she's what now?" James interrupted. At this point, he was absolutely bewildered. There was absolutely no way that-- Well, no. Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense. Traven sighed.

"She is the reigning Grand Champion. She has never had a single challenger to her title, and thus has not fought a professional battle since then. I did not even know that she was an Arena fighter until Ingar had told me that she was going to be fighting for the title that afternoon." His voice grew quiet. "I'd heard stories of the Gray Prince... his ferocity, and his skill, but I had no idea... What he did was just... But that's not really for me to tell. Nhiilaa, she's one of the best fighters I've seen, but she her style lacks grace. What she does to make up for it is a critical eye. She would have seen Alduin, I can guarantee it."

"Then... what do you think happened?" The cat looked up at the mention of his name and yawned. It let out a sharp squeak as Hannibal Traven picked it up and cradled it in his arms.

"I don't know, but I know that she will not likely tell you if you asked. I doubt that she'd tell her father," he remarked.

"She probably doesn't tell her father a lot of things... She is an adult, you know."

"You've obviously never met her father," laughed the mage. "She tells him nearly everything. This... whatever is plaguing her, I do not think that she would tell a soul. She is very much like her mother in that aspect: If she does not want to reveal her secrets, she will not. The both of them are... were... are the most stubborn people I've ever met.

"If she says that she is fine," he enunciated slowly. "She is most definitely not so."

–

Traven's words ran in James' head as he walked back to his bed in the Mages Quarters. A candle was lit in a corner. He'd expected all of the mages to be asleep by now, but there she sat, a book in her hands. Without trying to make too much of a sound, he approached her slowly.

"Nhiilaa?" The girl stirred in answer. "Are you alright?"

Nhiilaa looked up at him, her face quizzical for but the briefest of moments. Suddenly, a wide smile cracked her lips. "I'm fine, James. Why do you ask?"

His heart sank.


	24. Chapter 24

_Author's Note: This chapter's really short, and I'm not very happy with the way that it turned out. I'll probably re-write this later when this whole thing is finished._

Something was wrong...

It was not that Nhiilaa had another dream–or nightmare, rather–of that same malevolent voice. Rather, it was the distinct lack there of that had chilled her to the bone upon waking that morning. The room had been an eerie sort of silent, like the calm before a terrible, destructive storm. The air was charged, she felt, with some invisible evil; not at all unlike the air of Crowhaven, but at the same time vastly different.

With no collaborative evidence to support her theory, she was forced to plaster a horribly fake smile onto her face, dress, and wake up the Imperial.

–

It was that morning that James Peleius decided that waking up to an ebony-clad giantess looming over him in the near-utter darkness was not at the top of his list of things he wanted to experience. Of course, it was a little late for that, as somehow the girl had gotten the notion that the earlier the two left, the quicker that they'd get to the shrine. And by earlier, she meant rising hours before the dawn even thought of breaking. Then again, he wasn't particularly inclined to argue with her, as the advent of her wearing her full suit of armor was not strictly a sight that allowed for much disagreement in the first place.

It wasn't that she looked _frightening_, he decided as they walked through the freezing streets from the Arcane University, because he'd seen women in armor before. With women such as Caroline around, one would get used to seeing strong women run about in heavy armor all the time. Being a Blade would in fact do that to a person. No, it was more that she looked... capable... for the first time since he'd begun to travel with her, he thought. Suddenly the sword at her belt did not look like mere decoration as it once had, and he began to comprehend that she _actually_ did know how to use it. His guess was that she in fact knew how to use it well, and came to the conclusion that he would not like to have met this new woman in a dark alley on a bad day. Not that he wanted to meet Nhiilaa in an alley, anyway.

That was a different sort of horror.

So, when said Nordic warrior told him to get up, and that they were to be leaving shortly, he did as he was told, like a good little soldier. It wasn't until the cold air nearly knocked the wind from his lungs, however, that he realized just how chilling the mornings of the Imperial City could be. James' teeth began to rattle inside his head as he stuttered to get his words from his lips to Nhiilaa's ears.

"Just _why_ did you wake me up so early?" he quipped as he ran behind her. A long, single braid bobbed around her shoulders as she walked, which was another change.

"Because the morning air is bracing and builds character," she happily replied. James glared at the back of the girl's skull; it was too damn early to be _that_ chipper, especially since they were looking to over a half day's ride to this shrine. Probably more, he thought, as he knew that it was most likely in some out-of-the-way hilltop with a cave brimming with creatures ready to snap of his limbs for their evening meal.

"Oh har har, aren't we a bowl of sunshine and wit this morning," grumbled the man. Nhiilaa's smile faltered slightly, then eventually faded. Neither of them said anything more as they approached the gates of the stables.

Morihaus snorted with some convoluted sort of excitement as she approached, and the smile returned to the Nord's face. James looked up at his steed; somehow he didn't think that Bala cared much whether he even existed or not.

Hannibal Traven and his twin, on the other hand, did not look at all pleased to see either of them.

"Well, well, well," said the elder of the two, "What do we have here? A young Arena fighter and her escort attempting to flee from the City under the cover of the dawn?" Nhiilaa glowered at the Arch Mage with a faux-frown. "You could have at least left word that you were leaving." Suddenly, both the Nord and the Breton burst into laughter, doubling over with tears in their eyes. Isaan and James were less than amused.

"Oh yes, laugh it up, you two. It's not like I actually _enjoy_ my sleep. Or that I need it. I'm perfectly capable of running off of pure ether, you know. Quite a fantastical feat, to be sure," the younger of the twins muttered angrily. His brother looked at him with a look on his face that said quite clearly, 'I can't believe you're whining about this.'

"At least _you_ don't have to gallivant about Cyrodiil at the heels of a half-crazed Nord on horseback. You get to go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day, only waking when you need to go muse about the meaning of magicka or how to best transport items across the room with the greatest flourish of the hand. Or whatever you do; I really don't care."

"You don't have to deal with things exploding or being set ablaze with magical flames sporadically."

"And _you_ don't have to listen to that one," James motioned to Nhiilaa, "prattle on about how much better Skyrim is than Cyrodiil or the fine techniques of horse-care and subsequent riding." Isaan got a look in his eye.

"Oh but you, my favorite and most dear brother, do not have to listen to mer of the Altmer variety with seemingly massive chips on their shoulders prattle on about whatever they prattle about." His twin opened his mouth and shut it a few times; there was no way that he could combat that. His was truly the worse of the two conditions. Traven stared at them for a moment before returning his gaze to the girl.

"So I should not be expecting a visit from you in the near future?" he remarked. Nhiilaa stiffened, then slowly shook her head. "In that case, I should like to have somewhere to send my letters to you. The Fighter's Guild of Bruma should be an appropriate place, am I correct?" She shook her head.

"Send it to Castle Bruma. I will send someone to pick them up while I am gone... other wise I will get them myself," she said, almost sadly. The wizened man looked at her, smiling kindly. Something told the Peleius twins that there was something that they could not quite comprehend occurring. Something else told them that they did not quite want to know.

"Farewell, Dragonheart," Traven said, grasping the girl in a tight hug. Nhiilaa pushed tears back from her mind as her chin rested on the top of Traven's head. It was astonishing how small she seemed, despite towering over the tiny man.

"Farewell, Arch Mage Traven," she murmured into his white hair. Traven broke the embrace, despite Nhiilaa's apparent attempt to hold on. He looked her in the eyes for but a moment, and turned to leave, motioning Isaan to come with him. The younger mage nodded and moved to follow him. Before the two left, Isaan looked back at his brother and nodded.

Then they were gone, and did not look back.

James looked at Nhiilaa. "We should be heading out, don't you think?" he asked solemnly. She nodded, yet did not move. She just stood and stared at where the mages had been standing moments before. It seemed that she could not move, even though it was apparent that she wanted to.

It was only until later that James would ever fully know why. He pulled on her arm gently until she moved away and clamored gracelessly onto the back of her horse. The gate slammed behind them as they rode off quietly, the only sounds being the beating of hooves on the cobblestones as the horses broke into a gallop.

–

The one thing that James would quite possibly never understand was the Daedra princes. Perhaps because while he did not quite reach the fanaticism of Alessia Ottus, he was a somewhat devout follower of the divines—particularly Dibella—and even he partook in a... little drunken revelry and debauchery. It was the lying, cheating, stealing, and above all flat out murder that he could not comprehend. Why go kill someone when you can get drunk off your arse and find comfort in the form of a beautiful woman, he though? Killing was just a waste of time. They came upon the shrine, James thinking that he was about to be murdered and eaten before they could say a word...

He stared at the cultists. To his shock, they looked at him, once, and then went back to whatever they were doing. Were they... reading? The three of them looked to be fairly normal, as far as he could tell. They did not look at him with welcoming expressions, but they weren't hostile either. They looked to be... indifferent to his presence. It was rather unsettling, as he did not expect to be living at this point. Nhiilaa, on the other hand, was unphased by their calm demeanor, and she walked immediately up to one of them and just started _talking _to him, a Dunmer. James did not go near enough to listen to their conversation, and moments later, Nhiilaa made a motion for him to follow her up to the shrine. He complied with her request.

They locked eyes for a moment, and both nodded. From her bag, Nhiilaa produced the black soul gem and placed it on the altar. For a moment, nothing happened. The gem sat there almost reverently, and then in the next instant, it was gone, and the air turned to ice around them. The world grew still.

_We meet again, mortal, for we have met before whether you know it or not._ _When you mutter in your sleep, you speak to me. When you've waken wet with sweat, you've just left my house. I dwell in your dreams; I savor your nightmares. Now, you will serve me. The wizard Arkved has the Orb of Vaermina... snatched from the dreams of my followers and dragged to the waking world. Travel to his tower and retrieve my orb. Take care, mortal. In my Orb, Arkved has found more that he bargained for._

Nhiilaa expected the grove to return to normal. She was still frozen in place, though her friend moved besides her, grasping her by the shoulder to attempt to wake her from her stupor. In astonishment, she struggled to lift her head up, locking eyes with the statue. The voice grew in her mind.

_Ah... it's you. You come to me not only to seek my treasures, but my blessing. I have seen what plagues your rest, and it is not my doing. Bring me my Orb, and I will be the only one permitted to haunt you in your dreams._

Suddenly she could move again, and she nearly fell over from the shock of it all. James rushed to her in concerned, but she shook him off. She turned, and the cultists stared at _her_, nodding with approval.

"So," the Imperial said, attempting to press forward in their goals, "Where is this tower?" Nhiilaa shook her head, leveling herself.

"I haven't the foggiest. I would assume it would be around here, however, seeing as how he took the Orb from the cultists," she muttered. "Perhaps it is south of here? That would make the most sense, I would think."

"You mean south of the lake? I do remember seeing a glimpse of a tower of some sort. That must be it." So, they climbed back onto the backs of their horses and started to travel south.


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's Note: Hey! Look who's not dead! Anyways, this portion of the story had to be split up into two or three short chapters because otherwise I'd have to put them all together, and then it'd be really long. Those will be up... when I get to it!_

"This doesn't look _that _bad," James said, sucking in a breath of cool air. His companion looked about the courtyard, dismantled skeleton at her feet and sword in hand.

"No, it doesn't. It looks fairly… _normal_," she conceded. There were overgrown bushes and vines; to be expected in an old fort, crumbling walls and decaying woodwork; also to be expected, and there was a corpse unceremoniously dumped in the centre of the courtyard to decay on its own accord with the assistance of vultures and ravens and scavengers of the like. This was a _tad_ odd, but neither Blade wanted to think much of it. So they didn't.

The air of the fort was cold; almost impossibly so. Pungent remnants of stale mead mixed with decaying matter greeted the pair, nauseating them upon impact. From beyond the shadows were the rats, clawing and gnawing at bones from gods-know-where, with their beady little eyes staring at them with contempt and malice as to the invasion of their sacred home.

James shivered. "Well _this_ certainly is cozy. All you need now is a few more holes in the walls and well, damn, sign me up and move me in." His fairer companion rolled her eyes.

"Let's just find the orb and get out. I don't like the feeling of this place," she said, moving towards the door at the end of the hall.

"What? No snide comment? Nothing about what an idiot I am for even suggesting such a ridiculous idea? No _complaining_?"

"No," replied Nhiilaa simply, wrenching open the door. The Imperial followed her with a mixed look of half amazement and half disbelief.

"Who are you? Where is the girl who complains if the air is slightly above tolerable? Not that I'm complaining or anything, because believe me, this is a welcome shift from the normal—"

"Then why are you still complaining about it, hmm? It would seem that you almost miss my whining," she said. James shut up.

The door opened to reveal a clean room. This, in itself, was not ordinary, considering the squalor of the previous chamber. The room consisted of a traditional table and setting, complete with lit candles and a freshly opened bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy, and more than one decanter sent in preparation to receive said viscous fluid. It was… a transfixing sight, to say the least.

James was about to sit and partake in the proffered drink, when a slap on the hand and a harsh glare from the giantess stopped him.

"We don't stop for anything, let alone conveniently placed wine," she snapped. "Really, of all the idiotic things to do, you pick that. Have you completely lost what very little sense you had left?" Surprisingly, the man just smiled back at her. "What? Do I have something on my armor?" She turned round and round looking for it.

"No, it's just that no matter how hard you try, how well you hide it, you're always going to be that giant ball of condescending comments that I know and tolerate." He grinned wickedly as she proceeded to make a face at him, prompting the smile to simply grow wider. They continued onward, moving into the next chamber.

Both the two Blades stopped.

"… Well this is a change," James said. Nhiilaa was forced to agree. He moved into the centre of the room, turning slowly as he did so. "There's nothing here but cobwebs!" What kind of show is this Arkvedrunning, anyway? Honestly, he should fire whatever maid he has. Even though there's no furniture is not a valid excuse to neglect cleanliness, let alone proper sanitation," he droned on. And on. And on… Nhiilaa shook her head.

"It's not empty." James looked at her as if she were mad.

"What are you talking about? Are you in the same room as I am? Because where I am, there's nothing in it. Absolutely _nothing_." He flung he arms about to punctuate his frustration. After his brief rant, he looked back at his partner. To his chagrin, she was still shaking her head to the negative.

"You forgot to look up."

Out of pure curiosity, James slowly tilted his head towards the ceiling. Affixed there was the exact same table setting, right down to the lit candles and decanters. Everything was perfectly in place. Exactly. Except for the fact that it was suspended upside-down on the ceiling of the chamber and the chamber itself was in a state of pure filth.

"Oh. Well, that's interesting," he muttered. It was clear that he was quite put-off by the entire situation. "Erm, what do we do?"

"What do you mean, 'what do we do?'" She stared at him in disbelief.

"There's a ceiling on the table!"

"Actually, there's a table on the ceiling, but it's a common mistake amongst this sort of thing… then again this is the first encounter I've had with ceiling-inhabiting furniture, so at least that's what I imagine is the common response. It is now, anyway."

"You're not making a whole lot of sense." James was confused.

"Well there's a _table_ on the _ceiling_." Nhiilaa was also confused.

Being that they were both unsure as to what was the proper protocol in this sort of situation, the Imperial decided to take control of it. "I'm fairly certain that we should leave the table alone. It being on the ceiling and everything..." She nodded.

"I think that is a great idea. In fact, I'm convinced that we should probably leave the room in general," conceded the girl. However, neither moved to leave; instead both stayed firmly planted, eyes still raised to the table in wonder. "We should go."

"Ladies first," James said, motioning to the exit. Nhiilaa rolled her eyes at him.

"Where'd you get that load of crap?" she asked. Never the less, she took the first movements towards the door, and close behind her was her companion.

He turned towards the gravitationally-challenged tabled for the last time. A second later, and a well-aimed rock traveled a one-way collision course with the various cutlery. Another second passed, and every single item that had been previously tightly drawn to the wood careened to the floor quite unceremoniously.

Promptly he then turned 'round and cantered after his friend amidst the rain of tumblers and knives.

--

"Where did you just go?" asked Nhiilaa, obviously irate.

"Nowhere," he answered quickly. Almost too quickly. "I've been behind you this entire time. Absolutely nothing is disturbed in the topsy-turvy ceiling-table room. Absolutely _nothing_." Nhiilaa stared at him. She didn't believe him for a second, but decided that it would be much more beneficial to all parties concerned if she did not press this particular matter further.

"Let's just move on, shall we? And for the love of Ysmir, stop messing around. We are here to actually _do something_, not to 'have fun.'

'_We are here to actually do something, not to have fun,_' James mouthed childishly behind her as she turned away from him. The pair walked through yet another short hallway only to emerge on the other side in complete darkness.

It was Nhiilaa's eyes that adjusted to the minimal light first; even then, her eyes were drawn hypnotically to the barren torchlight. She hadn't noticed the severe lack of suitable grounding until she misstepped, nearly teetering off the edge. The sounds of her screams echoed above the pyre's roaring flames as the metal from her glove fortunately caught fast on what appeared to be a bridge, allowing for enough momentum to regain her equilibrium.

"Watch your feet," she said curtly. There was no reply, which was disconcerting. Silence from him proved to be damaging in past experiences. "Oh what is it _now_Peleius? I swear, if you're off getting yourself _killed_I'm going to be so mad. Really. I can't spend my entire life making sure you're not running off getting slaughtered somewhere in a pathetic decrepit hole." She whirled around and around and around. "Where in Oblivion have you gotten to? Peleius! Answer me, you bloody fetcher or I swear by all things pointy and sharp I will cut you up into a thousand pieces and then give them to Jauffre as a nice present!"

Nhiilaa attempted to wrench the door behind her. It would not open. It wasn't that it was locked, per se, more like _jammed_. Like an object was being placed in front of it to prevent its opening. Which was strange, considering the fact that the door opened outwards, towards the torches. She looked down.

James sat, back against the door, crumpled into a small heap. He stared outward, not looking at her, but through her, as if she were a pane of translucent glass. Not a single sound escaped his lips, but the look on his face; it was sheer terror. His lips fumbled for a moment, quivering with what he wished to say.

"—I'm afraid of heights," finally he managed to whisper. Apparently, this was an understatement. Nhiilaa lowered herself onto the rock next to him and stared out, same as him. The bridge expanded beyond them, disappearing at the brink of the horizon, but somehow they knew it went on. It must have been only a hundred feet or so… but still. The abyss below them was unfathomable.

Even she had to admit, it was not the most pleasant feeling in the world.

"… I see." What else was she supposed to say? _Well that's too bad. You can just stay here if you want and I'll roam the rest of this most-likely rat-infested hole of a fort while you sit here and cower like a little fetcher. That's just fine with me, of course. It's not like the orb's just beyond that room and this place obviously isn't strange_ at all_. _Yes, the whole situation was… disconcerting, to say the least. After all, why in all of Oblivion would this wizard need a bridge across a bottomless pit? _To get to the other side, of course_. That aside, the whole thing just smelled of a cruel joke, as if someone were just toying with them.

She was not about to allow James to succumb to one little jest, no matter how frightened he was. It wasn't that she didn't care; it was that she did not want to be alone in this damn place. She stood up.

"Look, James, here's how it is: There's a bottomless chasm beneath us. The only thing that separates us from it is this rock here and that bridge over there," she said, gesticulating to illustrate her point as she spoke. "We need to be over there. If we stay here, that sort of defeats the purpose of coming in here in the first place. You might as well _leave_ if you're not going to cross this bridge." His expression brightened slightly at the thought of being able to leave. "—However." There was always a 'but.' "I'm not about to let you do that, because I'm _not _afraid of heights, but I am afraid of Jauffre's wrath and Martin's whining. So I'm not going back there empty handed, you see. And Vaermina's offered me something very nice on the side, which she certainly did not have to do. Now, I don't know about you, but I'd like to not piss off a daedra lord. I tend to think that's a pretty terrible idea.

"So you now have two options: You can get up and walk across the bridge yourself, or I'm going to have to carry you across, holding you so that you can see the abyss the _entire _time and leaving you with the knowledge that I could very well likely drop you at any given second because I'm assuming that you're not that light in the first place."

The options mulled about his head for a few minutes. Neither was very tempting. He wished that there was a third option, something along the lines of crawling into a hole and praying for death and getting eaten by lions and wolves and bears.

"Oh my," she breathed, annoyed. "You have fifteen seconds before I haul your god-forsaken carcass over my shoulder and drag you across. Do you _really_ want that? Imagine what the other Blades would say. Oh dear, imaging what your brother would say when I tell him—"

"That's enough!" he snapped, standing quickly. "Let's get this over with before I change my mind." A smile cracked Nhiilaa's sour disposition as she slapped him on the arm.

"That's the spirit!" She was all too cheery about bullying him into submission. It was rather annoying, he thought. Of course, she put him in front of her. "So you don't try and run," she explained.

Wonderful.


	26. Chapter 26

_Author's Note: College is a soul sucking device. That is all I have to say about it. Anyway, I'll try not to pull this whole 'Oh hey I'm back did you all miss me? Have an update and then Ima disappear again,' thing again, at least for for a while._

_

* * *

_

James found that, if he looked forward and kept his gaze affixed on the door, it was no easier to stop thinking about plummeting to his certain death due to one slight misstep on the narrow path than if he looked down and monitored his steps closely. However, his 'fairer' companion was under the opposite assumption, and every time he looked down, she snapped at him to keep his head up and eyes forward, all evidence of sympathy gone in a puff of smoke.

This, of course, did almost absolutely nothing to ease his nerves. Still, he kept his head up, if to do nothing but keep her quiet. And so, the only sounds to be heard were the echoing of their footsteps, which were actually quite loud and was a constant reminder of the gaping maw spanning beneath their feet, and how just one tiny misstep could send them both plummeting to their deaths below—

The sound of boot upon cold, sturdy rock rang through the cavern, and James let out a sigh of relief. He looked back to see Nhiilaa staring at him with some look of expectation written visibly across her face. She took point and opened the door that stood in front of them. The room was inexplicably warmer than the abyss, vegetation sprawling from the cracks in the ceiling to the floor and back again. Trees rooted themselves firmly to the flooring, stripping flagstones of their places and leaving gaping holes above them.

It was a magnificent sight in its own right, despite its less than idyllic predecessors. And yet... there was something not quite right about the entire thing.

Nhiilaa, whose eyes had been firmly affixed to the plants' hostile territorial takeover of the chamber, did not manage to warn James as to her suspicions before the shriek of several Clannfear met their ears. Both Blades swore audibly, wrenching their swords out of their sheaths just in time. The claws of the daedra scratched at Nhiilaa's armor, making small rents wherever they made contact.

There was little time to think. The three clannfear had them sequestered in a small hallway, their backs nearly pressed against the door. As the hallways was, by nature, very small, James did not have adequate space to swing his sword, let alone assist Nhiilaa in the assault on the daedra. And so, he was stuck behind her, unable to do much of anything, while the demons ripped at her arms and sword. However, it looked as if Nhiilaa understood perfectly what was going on; she pushed the Clannfear back with parries and the use of her shield rather than a straight on attack. To attack that number of Clannfear by one's self in such a narrow passage would have surely been the most idiotic thing that one could do in such a situation, not to mention most likely suicide.

Finally the Blades had driven the daedra back into the main chamber, and James saw an opening to slip under Nhiilaa's sword arm, skewering one of the monsters upon his sword as he freed himself of the tiny prison.

His torso exploded in pain, however, as the Clannfear scratched at his armor as it died. Involuntarily, he gasped before swallowing his discomfort and pulling the sword from its corpse. Nhiilaa, on the other hand, appeared to be faring better against the beasts, a corpse at her feet and the last one on the retreat. The Blades attacked in unison, and the last creature was dispatched, though not without receiving like wounds.

"James," Nhiilaa said, motioning to his brow. "You're bleeding." He touched a finger to his head.

"So I am. And for that matter, so're you." To his surprise, the Nord simply shrugged off the comment, though a cut just above her jawline bled freely down her neck. Overall, her wounds were less severe than his own from what he could tell, but were far more numerous. "I don't suppose you're going to be healing any of those?" The look that she gave him was quite clear: '_Why bother?_'

"We should keep moving," she said. "The more time we waste here, the more daylight we burn. I don't want to have to trek back to the shrine in the dead of night, thanks very much." For someone who who wanted this to be over with quickly, the giantess seemed to waste more time with her inane nagging than his short speech, he thought. Despite his feelings, he did not say a word, but merely crossed the now quiet room to a door on the opposing wall. With a grand sort of flourish, he opened the door and bowed to Nhiilaa in mock reverence.

"Ladies first," he said, remembering the table and ceiling debacle with an involuntary shudder. Nhiilaa, however, did not move an inch. "What now? Don't tell me you're going to be stubborn about this too, now." He rolled his eyes.

"I don't think that we should be going out that way, James," said the girl level-headily. With an irritated sigh, James abandoned his more gentlemanly approach and turned to go through the doorway himself.

It wasn't until he was midway through it that he realized that he was stepping a nightmarish scene straight from the very pit of his worst thoughts and dreams. Nhiilaa grabbed a free edge of his armor and pulled him back roughly before he went teetering off of a precarious ledge. The door slammed shut in front of them.

"And _that_ is exactly why I said that we shouldn't go out that way."

James just stared at the doorway, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

–

"This fort never ends!" the Nord whined. "It just goes on and on and on and on..." The sounds of her cautious steps had morphed into shuffles long ago. Her companion rolled his eyes for what seemed to be the thousandth time.

"What happened to 'We can't stop for anything, James,' 'We shouldn't burn any daylight, James,' 'Stop being a ninny and pick up the pace,_ James_?' Hmmm? You were all tally forth and..." _Mature_. "Now you're back to whining like a spoiled brat," he spat, angry and tired of her complaints. She responded by pushing him forward. '_How adult_.'

"That was _before_ I figured out that this damned fort is so long. I'm tired. My feet hurt. I'm bloody and sore. I just want to find this damn orb and if I see one more corpse littering this damned hallway I'm going to scream!" she yelled, hacking angrily at one of the many, _many_ rotting bodies.

"And you don't think that I'm not!? Oh wait, my mistake, that would involve you giving a thought to someone else other than yourself for more than two seconds. Do us both a favor and keep your whining to yourself, you stubborn little girl, because I would rather sleep with every single corpse in this room than listen to it anymore."

"You're such a prat, you do know that, right? And I mean that in every single sense of the word," she sniped before shutting up. The sounds of their boots would have echoed loudly throughout the hallway if it hadn't been for the sheer volume of decomposing bodies padding the walls with their flesh. Nhiilaa entertained the idea of just how James planned on getting them down from the walls.

Or maybe he wouldn't have to?

… Nhiilaa banished the notion quickly. She looked up, though not to see the unstaring eyes that she had _almost_ grown accustomed to wandering about in this hell-hole, but to thorns clawing their way through the ceiling, through the floors, and even the walls. A bed lay on the furthest wall to the left of them, a man, presumably Arkved, in fitful slumber. Both Nhiilaa and James ignored the wizard somehow, pretending that he wasn't even there, as they ransacked his chambers for the missing orb.

"It's not in any of the drawers," James called to his partner as she wandered towards Arkved's desk, transfixed, though not by anything that should have had that effect. Papers littered the ground, inkblots staining loose parchment and the wood of the desk. She picked up each crumpled ball with care, reading them slowly; she even failed to notice James coming up behind her after searching his half of the room.

"Oh... gods..." she whispered slowly. '_THE HORROR, THE HORROR... I shall lie here in the dark waiting for death,_' two of the missives read. In spite of how sick of a person this Arkved may have been to create the tower in the first place, Nhiilaa could not help but feel pity on him. "The poor fool..." Notes in hand, she turned to show them to her companion, who just stared slightly to the left of her. She looked down, and there lay the Orb of Vaernmina.

"I'll grab it," James choked out. Somehow, for such a simple object, it radiated pure fear.

While he tucked the dreaded thing into his bag, Nhiilaa looked over at Arkved, moving closer to him. It was almost an involuntary action, slipping the spare knife from her boot and into her hand. Up close, the wizard looked so pathetic, his face so haggard and worn, most likely from his unending sleep. '_Vaernmina must be torturing him and holding him hostage within his own mind_,' she thought. On some level, she supposed that he deserved his fate; after all, as a mage he should have known the dangers of stealing from a Daedra Lord, and the Lord of Nightmares at that. To do so would have been enough to warrant such a cruel end. On another though, it wasn't an end. Arkved would never awaken, and it was doubtful than any bandit would come into this area, or spend enough time to even get down to this level of hell without going mad first... The tower would pass into legend, if that, and it would crumble and ruin around his self-made prison, and he would persist only to live in the land of his terrors. Such was the way of the Daedra Lord...

Poor, poor fool.

"Nhiilaa! What are you doing?!" the Imperial cried from behind her as she buried the knife in Arkved's back. Not even a twitch as the blood pooled and stained the white robes. "Have you gone completely insane!? What did you just do?!" James shook the Nord violently, spinning her towards him. He caught sight of Arkved's state in his peripheral vision. "Talos have mercy... You killed him! What... why?!"

She stared at him, shaking her head. "No one... no one deserves to be tortured like that James... Even if they are as horrible as him."

"You could have just let him die naturally! It wouldn't be long," he cried, exasperated. It baffled him that she was trying to add logic to this situation.

"No. Vaernmina wouldn't let him. You really think that she'd let someone who committed a crime against her like that just die of natural causes? No! She's more likely to keep him alive just to make his own mind a complete prison. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, James! And he just... he just wanted to die," she said, as she shoved the notes onto James' outstretched hands. "We should just go. Vaernmina probably knows that we have the orb, and Daedra Lords are not known for their patience..." James just stared at her.

"Sure... er, let's go then," he finally stammered out. Nhiilaa pointed to a door to the left of them. "But we came out the other way."

"Just trust me?" she asked. The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

The sun was bright outside and directly overhead as the pair left the tower. After a moment of swearing and wondering why they just hadn't looked around for that damned trapped door in the first place on the part of both Blades, they found their steeds and rode back in the direction of the shrine, the orb an uncomfortable weight on James' back. Neither one spoke to the other. James couldn't, not after what she'd done. '_How could she just do that so nonchalantly...?'_ he wondered, staring at her long, blonde braid bouncing with the horse's movements. '_This is a human life we're dealing with, not some...'_

They reached the shrine all too quickly, and James found that he was unable to complete his thought as he looked upon the statue of the Daedra Lord. He took the orb from his bag, placed it on the altar, and awaited the all too familiar chill that had him frozen in fear just mere hours before.

'_My Orb is returned, and Arkved will live out the remainder of his days in fear,' _hissed the wind. A pang of guilt stabbed Nhiilaa in the chest. Did she know? '_You have proved yourselves, mortals. It is only fitting that you bear my token..._' In an instant and quicker than they could blink, the orb was gone, and in its place rest a staff topped with a grotesque skull. When Nhiilaa did not move to take it, James did, the red eyes staring at him like some long forgotten friend. James was repulsed by even the look of the foul thing. Nhiilaa still did not move.

'_As for you, mortal, I am most disappointed in your actions against me.'_ She knew. '_However, you have done what I asked, and with the return of my Orb, I am feeling most benevolent. So worry not, little mortal. I will be the only one to haunt your shadows from this moment forth._' The voice faded, and yet Nhiilaa could not shake the feeling that the Prince was laughing at her from her throne in Quagmire.

James tugged on the free edge of her armor. "Let's go," he said, motioning to the horses. The staff was in his hand, the skull covered by a piece of cloth. She nodded in agreement, and they set off for Cloud Ruler.

–

The snow fell quietly on the ground, but the air was saturated with soot and ash. In the distance, Martin could see the destruction unfold beneath the silent temple. Smoke rose from inside the Bruma gates, and the screams of the guard could almost be heard from his perch on the wall if he listened closely enough. He dared not do so, however. Where the fire had started, he had no idea, but wherever it was, it seemed to be contained. At least, for the moment. The Septim heir prayed to the gods that it was.

He turned away from the horrific scene to focus his attention on the road. An uneasy feeling settled on his soul; they'd been gone for nearly four days now. Then again, they were both strong warriors from what he had seen. They would be fine, he reassured himself.

And yet, there was a tug at his heartstrings, an annoying gnawing asking _what if_? They had all thought that Kvatch was safe and sound as well. There was always some sort of danger now, and Nhiilaa's luck would only hold out for so long...

"Sire?" Baurus asked from behind him. Martin turned, smiling falsely. "Perhaps it would be a better idea to wait for James and Nhiilaa indoors? I doubt that they will appreciate you freezing half to death on their account. Besides, they can take care of themselves." Martin had become accustomed to Baurus' bluntness by now. The Blade had given him the exact same speech every day now, it seemed.

"I suppose that you're right," Martin sighed. The warmth of the Great Hall didn't make him feel any better about the whole situation, but there was really nothing to be done about that. With a heavy heart and a sigh, he once again opened the _Mysterium Xarxes_, the now-familiar evil feeling washing over him. The letters danced across the page, making it difficult to concentrate, or was that the tankard of mead in his hand? It didn't matter. Still... it was selfish of him to wallow in self-pity like he had been. After all, it was not he who was risking his life to save the Empire. He wasn't doing much of anything, he thought grimly.

No, that was the pity speaking again. Martin did his best to ignore it, and renewed his efforts to make sense of this damned book.

"--Open the gates!" rang Belisarius' voice from outside. Hooves pounded on the cobbles on the opposite side of the door, and they paused, metal boots taking their place. Martin looked up from the _Xarxes_, and blast of frigid air pervaded the warm atmosphere.

"Thank goodness you're safe," he breathed at the sight of the two Blades. Neither one of them looked particularly happy, and were more than worse for wear. The dirt and blood covering the both of them, presumably their own, would just have to wait. "Have you got the artifact?"

"Er.. yeah," James said, struggling to untie a large staff from his back. Nhiilaa retrieved the object for him, and presented it to the priest. Confused, Martin pulled the sacking from the top of the staff and sucked in his breath in horror.

"... The Staff of Corruption..." His blood ran cold at the sight of it. "The world will rest easier now that this foul thing won't be in it..." He looked up at the Blades in wonder. What in the world had possessed them to go after that horrible thing?

James shoved the sacking back onto the top of the staff, and the room warmed up by several degrees. Behind them stood Jauffre, who just looked on motionlessly. "You two should get cleaned up... We have much to discuss when you are ready," said the Grandmaster.

Outside, the world stood quiet in reverence.


	27. Chapter 27

The air was frigid as Nhiilaa, now fresh and clean from the stench of horror, walked to the stables. To her surprise, James was there, attempting to care for Bala and failing miserably at it. A soft chuckle escaped her lips before taking a place next to the two.

"Having trouble?" she asked lightly. The Imperial simply glared at her before sticking his tongue out at her. "Here, let me help. You're doing it all wrong. You start with the hooves and work up from there." She forced James to surrender the small stood that he sat upon and pulled a knife from the sheath at his belt.

"You going to stab the horse too?" he asked, immediately regretting his words. However, she chose to ignore them. "Sorry... I didn't--"

"It's in the past." It still did not change what she had done. Still, he supposed that he could understand her position on the matter. Arkved had looked extremely pitiful... "Anyway. You have to dig all the rocks and things like that out of the hooves first. Otherwise it can de-shoe the horse and that usually leads to splitting of the hooves, which is detrimental." She lifted the leg of the horse and held it at an angle and began scraping at it.

And as fascinating as this was, James couldn't help but shirk off back into the comforts of the Great Hall.

Nhiilaa turned around to see that he was gone, and swore loudly at him. She could hear his laughter as the door shut behind him. "Bloody fetcher. Ah, well." She continued on with what she was doing. Which was terribly, _terribly_ fascinating. The horses snorted in contentment

–

_"Papa!" Nhiilaa called to her father from across the gate, who sat on a stool in the stable next to Ernest. "Mama says that dinner will be ready after my lesson with Carahil this afternoon. She doesn't want you to lose track of time again and to be home before we get back." She turned to bounce away back to the Mages Guild where her mother was waiting for her, though she was not particularly looking forward to her lesson._

_"Nhiilaa Ijorta, where in the name of Shor do you think you are going?" Ingar shouted from across the stable. The young girl stopped in her tracks and turned to her father, eyes wide and full of innocence._

_"Inside, Papa. Mama says that--"_

_"Ijorta, you didn't take care of your poor horse. You can't just leave it out here without tending to it. That's horrible," he sighed, pulling her closer to the new pony. Morihaus looked back at her with harsh eyes and snorted angrily. After sticking her tongue out at the animal for a moment, she stared up at her father._

_"He looks fine to me, Papa. Can I go now?" she asked, annoyed. Her mother would have her head if she were late to another illusionary lesson, as would Carahil. To her dismay, Ingar glared down at her and shook his head. He stroked his beard for a moment as he gave the pony a critical look-over._

_"How does that look fine to you? He hasn't been brushed in nearly a week and it shows. Now you pick up that brush and you brush his coat until it glistens." Instead of moving, his daughter just looked down at the brush, then up at him, and frowned._

_"But I'll be late for my lesson and Mama will send me to bed without any supper," she whined, attempting to place the brush back into her father's large hands. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot, much like her mother did when she was irritated with Nhiilaa._

_"That's your own damn—darned fault then, Ijorta. If you don't take care of that horse I will be more than happy to sell it to Uncle Newheim. I'm sure that Hogar and Viguri would love to have a horse, and I'm certain that they would take care of the poor thing much better than you do, young lady," Ingar said, pointing to the horse as he spoke. Nhiilaa sighed and moved to Morihaus' side and glared at him._

_"This is all your fault, you know," grumbled the eleven-year-old. "If you were a good pony you wouldn't get so dirty and make me have to brush you all the time. Mama is going to be very angry with me tonight and it's all your fault. I hope you're happy with yourself, you great, smelly oaf."_

_Morihaus, lacking the ability to speak in a tongue she would understand, instead chose to respond by nipping angrily at her, snorting in her face. Nhiilaa squeaked in surprise, causing her father and Ernest, who had been sitting quietly watching the squabble while smoking his pipe, to fall into fits of uncontrollable laughter._

Nhiilaa laughed at the memory as well, shaking her head as she brushed Morihaus' coat.

–

The Grandmaster of the Blades was displeased. Bruma was not seeing much luck as of late, first with the fires at the Mages Guild, and now _this _of all this? He wasn't even sure how Mythic Dawn agents had been able to infiltrate the areas surrounding Bruma, but even he had to admit that the Empire could not have eyes in all places at all times. However, this was just carelessness! Plain and simple carelessness.

But more so, he was worried. He'd thought that they'd bought more time for Bruma than just a few weeks...

–

"Erm, excuse me?" A voice asked, jarring Martin from his slumber. The priest yawned widely before blinking a few times at his caller. He looked extremely familiar... "I'm looking for Brother Jauffre. Would you perhaps know where I could find him?" Martin looked down at the _Xarxes _on his desk for a moment before shutting it and standing up.

"Ah, yes I do. Follow me, please," said Martin cordially. He could hear Baurus following him behind him. They did not exchange any other words as Martin sleepily led him to Jauffre's humble chamber at the end of the hallway of the west wing of the temple. He knocked on the door loudly.

"Enter!" called the Grandmaster from the opposite side of the sliding door. The door slid open quietly, revealing a tired and irritated-looking Jauffre looking up at the heir, his guard, and the stranger from his seat at his desk. "What is it, Martin?" But before Martin could introduce the newcomer, he stepped forward, outstretching his hand to Jauffre in greeting.

"Hello, sir. My name is Isaan Peleius. I've been sent by the Arch-Mage to--" Isaan said, nervous. Strange, because Jauffre was not a particularly threatening figure, at least not in Martin's eyes. Maybe there was something different about him that affected those who were not accustomed to his usual gruffness?

"Yes, yes, yes. You have a letter of some sorts proving this, I'm assuming?"

"Oh, yes, of course." The mage pulled a sealed envelope after searching through his robe pockets for a moment and handed it to the Grandmaster.

"Ah, good. Well then, do make yourself comfortable," he said. Martin excused himself from the room. "Now then, Mister... Peleius is it? Your brother wouldn't happen to be James, would it be?" Jauffre hoped to the Talos that it wasn't.

Isaan nodded. "Indeed he is. You know of him, sir?" The old codger let out a moan of exasperation. Just what he needed: another skirt-chasing, rabble-rousing Peleius on his hands. Wonderful.

–

Another slice of mutton forfeited its life to the dull prongs of Nhiilaa's fork. It wasn't particularly good, but then again, Nhiilaa had never been much of a cook and honestly she was too tired to care right now. She popped another piece into her mouth and looked up from her pilfered copy of _The Bible of the Deep Ones _to see the priest sitting across from her, eating his own meal and looking at his own book with some intent. Nhiilaa titled her head to read the title on the spine of the book. _The Legendary Scourge_. Curious. She cleared her throat after a few minutes of silence.

"Can I help you?" Martin looked up, at her for a moment from his book before neatly returning to it.

"Not really," he said in between bites of stew. She blinked in confusion.

"Erm... alright then..." They sat and ate in almost near silence, except for the occasional inquiry about the other's tome. The whole situation was very awkward, Nhiilaa thought, and yet at the same time was very relaxing. It had been so long since she simply just sat and ate a meal for any length of time. It was... nice. Odd, but nice.

A hand tapped Nhiilaa on the shoulder, and she turned around to see Steffan. "Excuse me, Nhiilaa," he said, bowing his head slightly in greeting. "Jauffre would like to see you as soon as possible." And the serenity of the day was shattered.

"Oh. Well alright," grumbled the Nord as she rose from the table. Book in hand, she left the east wing and made her way to Jauffre's chambers.

"--_Could it really be a coincidence?_" Jauffre asked from the other side of the door. Nhiilaa stood quietly for a moment.

"_I think that it must be... I mean there aren't any 'Mythic Dawn' members, let alone any cultists in the Mages Guild to my knowledge,_"another voice, male, said. It sounded familiar... But from where?

"_Because you, of course, know every single person in the guild_." Nhiilaa choked back a snicker; she could practically hear the eye roll in James' voice.

"_And just because I don't means that there are, of course, cultists worming in every crevice of the Guild, is that what you think? Traven _does_ keep a fairly close eye on everything in the Guild, I think that he would know—"_

_"Traven doesn't have eyes everywhere, and there is always the person that slips through the cracks!"_

_"This is just like you. You can't let me have anything of my own, can you? You—" _Nhiilaa could almost name the person who that voice belonged to; it was on the tip of her tongue.

"_If you two are going to act like immature children you can just leave," _Jauffre snapped. That was enough eavesdropping, she supposed, and knocked on the door frame loudly. "Enter!"

Inside the room were Jauffre and James, along with a man she knew that she had seen before. Just where, she was not certain of. She stared at him, then at James for a moment, then back at the newcomer.

"Nhiilaa?" Jauffree asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"You wanted to see me?" The elderly Breton nodded. "So... what's this about?"

Jauffre cleared his throat. "Well, it seems that while the Mages Guild in Bruma was under attack--"

"It was under attack?!" she interrupted. He glared at her for a moment.

"Yes, while you and James were gone. It looks like the work of necromancers, according to our young friend from the Guild, at least at the moment," the Grandmaster paused. "As I was saying, it seems that while the guard was trying to put out the fire, which they ended up unable to do--"

"They were flames that could only be pout out with fire," said the stranger. "It took several guild mages to put them all out. Poor Prienne was--" He was silenced by a glare from Jauffre.

"Either way, I have just received word from Countess Carvain that an Oblivion Gate had opened as the guards were all busy trying to put out the flames. It would seem that the Mythic Dawn are putting their plan to attack Bruma into motion. Since you have dealt with the Gates before, I would like you to help the Countess' guardsmen and close the Gate. Once they see how it is done, they should be able to handle any new gates on their own." Internally, Nhiilaa wanted to just shrivel up and die, but externally, she simply nodded. "You should probably gather what you need and leave as soon as possible." She nodded weakly, moving toward the doorway when suddenly it dawned on her.

"You're the twin!" she cried, whirling around to James and his brother. "Your name is Isaac, right?" She was extremely proud of this realization. Isaan, on the other hand, was less than amused.

"It's ISAAN. With an 'N,' you—miss," quipped the mage. His brother just rolled his eyes, wondering why in the world Isaan was even here. It wasn't like he was of much use.

James rose to follow Nhiilaa out to the armory, where she had given her armor to Ferrum to repair for her.

"So we're going to go shut an Oblivion Gate?" he asked on the way, startling her. She stared at him as if he were mad for a moment before speaking.

"No... _I'm_ going to shut an Oblivion Gate," she said slowly, clearly confused. "You're staying here."

It was not a question.

"But Jauffre just asked us to go shut the Gate."

"Again, no. He asked _me_ to shut the Gate. You know the whole Kvatch Gate and everything? That's why _I _am going and you are staying here."

"Surely you could use my help. You know that I can fight daedra, you've seen me hold my own in battle before. I am at least _useful,_" he said. Anything to get away from his brother. _Anything_. And yet Nhiilaa only shook her head.

"Peleius, I don't think that you quite understand. You remember the doorway in Arkve'd tower that led only to a sea of lava with that lone island? That is how _all_ the landscape of Oblivion looks. It is dangerous, and it is not a question of whether or not you can fight. I already have to watch the backs of multiple guardsmen. I don't want your blood to be potentially on my shoulders as well." James was taken aback at her statement, too stunned to rebuke her claim at the moment. And so the Nord just left him standing there in the middle of the hall by himself, with only the bustle of his fellow Blades to keep him company.

–

Had she been too harsh with him? Most likely, she thought. But she was irritated enough at it was with having to lead a troop full of guardsmen who had already proven themselves to be ignorant buffoons, and to be perfectly honest, she was irritated with James as well. The last thing she needed was his wanton judgment of her actions, like she was some lunatic. Though, she supposed that it was more her fault than his own when it came to that. Whatever was done, was done. No amount of regret or judgment would ever change it.

Not that she regretted it. Right?

_"... I mean, can you believe that? Me? A burden? Hardly. She knows that I can fight, and that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I'm not some infant wandering into the kitchen when Mother is making a hot stew, after all. I'm not an idiot."_

_"That's debatable."_

_"Oh shut up, you ninny. What would you know about this anyway? You just sit and you read all day and you cast your silly little spells. You've never held a sword in your entire life."_

_"Right. If you say so."_

_"I'll tell you what this is about." _Nhiilaa stepped outside the gates of Cloud Ruler Temple and began her trek down the hillside. She had left Morihaus back up at the stable, considering that it was extremely doubtful that there would be many guards posted around the city. More likely that they would all be sent with her into the fray than not. She didn't want daedra eating up at her horse. _"She just wants all the glory for herself, I swear. I mean she _is _an Arena fighter after all--"_

_"I thought she was retired."_

_"Whatever, it's not official if she is. Who in their right mind would challenge her? I hear that Grey Prince fella had the title for nearly a decade. Doesn't really matter. She must _like_ the fame, wouldn't you think? She doesn't say it, but she probably gets recognized all over the place."_

_"You're ridiculous. Not that many people go to the Arena."_

_"Well _you_ live in the Imperial City. Haven't you heard anything about her at all?"_

_"Sure. But that's only in the Arena District from some insane little Bosmer that babbles at me when I run errands for Traven. You wouldn't believe the amount of healing salve they go through down there."_ The Gate loomed out in the distance, sky a bloody red overhead. She could almost feel the heat of the flames on her face, but her blood ran terribly cold. _"That's not the point either. She doesn't strike me as the sort of person to do that. You're just upset that a woman you're interested in isn't impressed by your muscles or charm and you don't know what to do about it."_

_"What?! Have you lost your mind?! Nhiilaa's not a _woman_; she's an immature little girl. You're sick."_

_"Then why are you so mad that she doesn't want you going with her? You've never been one to not shirk actual work when given the option to do so."_

_"Well it's certainly not because I'm in love with the girl."_

_"I never said love." _ All eyes were on her as she stepped onto the field. The guardsmen all parted like water to give her wide birth to Captain Burd. The captain looked at her with relief in his eyes. It didn't last long, though, because the cries of guardsmen filled their ears, daedra pouring from the Gate.

_"What in the world are you going on about then?"_

_"It's simple really. You don't know how to behave around women unless you're trying to get something out of them. I've never seen you have one female friend in your entire life, or even in the same presence of the same female for more than a week."_

_"That's not true. There are plenty of women here."_

_"And exactly how many of them have slept with you? What are their names, anyway?"_

_"... Gemma? Jana? Gina, I think. The other one is Karen, I know that for sure. Belisarius doesn't shut up about her. I think it's Belisarius, at least. Maybe it's Cyrus." _The last of the daedra fell dead at Nhiilaa's feet.

_"You really don't know any of these people very well, do you?" _Captain Burd sheathed his sword and approached Nhiilaa. He, apparently, did not recognize her from the debacle only a few short weeks ago. Relief was welcome.

"Thanks for coming," he said. Snow fell softly on the battlefield. "Since we had the Hero of Kvatch available, I didn't think it made any sense to try this on our own the first time. We're ready when you are. Just say the word and we'll follow you into that hell-spawned gate." Hero of Kvatch? That was a new one. Nhiilaa did not like the sound of it. She nodded.

_"It's not that I don't know them. The days here are different. It's hard to keep track of time, I guess."_ Nhiilaa looked back at the guards. They looked scared. Ready, but scared. They should be, she supposed. Oblivion was hell, after all.

"Let's go, then." Though she really did not want to. Burd nodded.

"Alright. Give me a minute to talk to the men. Everyone's a bit jumpy right now." More than a bit, apparently. Burd turned to the guards, who stood immediately at attention. Poor lambs. "Alright boys, listen up. We've got to close that Gate over there. Nobody likes the idea of going into that thing, but it's our job and we're going to do it. If we don't, Bruma ends up a smoking pile of rubble like what happened at Kvatch." There was an uncomfortable shuffle at the mention of the ruins. "But that's not going to happen here! Not while I'm captain of the guard! Bor, Soren, you're with me. The rest of you, stay outside and kill anything that comes out of that Gate. Let's show these bastards how we do it in Bruma!" All the guardsmen unsheathed their weapons and charged through the Gate.

Nhiilaa lingered for a moment, staring up at the hell-portal.

"_Besides, those sort of things don't really concern me, I guess. I wish I was out there. Being stuck at this damned temple is so boring. Nothing to do but train and read. All the interesting things happen outside these walls. This isn't what I signed up for at all. I wanted adventure... not mediocrity."_

The smell of sulfur washed over her, and all doubt was gone. She stared up at the bleak tower, the Bruma guard at her back, shaking in their boots. Only Burd stood near her, and he looked as if he was about to faint. The sigil keep loomed overhead like an evil eye, watching them and their fear. It taunted them.

"This is no place I ever wanted to find myself," the captain breathed, though not to her. "I don't see how we can... No, no we can do this. We have to do this. We have no choice." It was more like that he was trying to reassure himself of this. She knew that they had to, and she was going to get it done whether or not the captain and his men stuck around long enough to see how it was done. It seemed that he realized that she was listening, and so he cleared his throat. "I'm... glad that you're here. We wouldn't have a chance otherwise. What's our next move?"

Nhiilaa smiled and put on her helmet. Her eyes met the tower's from underneath her visor. "Follow me," she said. Sword drawn, she charged forward, leaving the guardsmen to match her pace or get left behind.

_"I think that this is where you are supposed to be. Everyone has their place."_


	28. Chapter 28

Like the rest of Oblivion, the metal of the door to the sigil keep was hot to the touch, despite the ebony covering Nhiilaa's hands. The Bruma guardsmen just stared up at the mighty fortress, almost as if they could not believe that they had survived this long in this hell-hole, or at all, for that matter. Despite everything, even Nhiilaa had to admit that the guards had been able to hold their own well, and she was impressed at their fortitude. Gods knew she wish she'd had it back at Kvatch.

She shuddered at the thought.

"The sigil stone should be at the top of this tower. It's what keeps the Gate anchored to our world, at I think so," she said as she pushed the door open and moved inside, sword in hand and shield up in preparation. The interior of the tower was black as night, except for the lone torrent of lava spiraling high into the reaches of building. The heat was horrid, sweat already beading on the brows of every single human in the room. The hiss of dremora kynval shook everyone to their core, but out of their amazed stupors. No time to gawk at the wonder of the Deadlands, because at an academic level, it was truly wondrous.

Her mother would have killed for a chance like this. Nhiilaa was thankful that there were no scholars or mages amongst them. They'd never get this Gate shut if there had been. It was too much of a scholarly dreamland, which was ironic considering that it was quite literally the stuff of nightmares for most _regular_ people. Still, she doubted that any sensible mage would want to wander into the Deadlands on their own, free accord. There couldn't be anyone _that_ crazy, if not stupid.

Up and up the they climbed, dispatching daedra as they found them. It was difficult to fight in a group, Nhiilaa found as she pulled an arrow from the shoulder of one of the guardsmen and healed it to the best of her ability. Given her choice, she would have just taken the captain with her and left the other two behind, but unfortunately it had not been. Still, they were useful to a point, but that damned marksman should have learned after the second or third time of nicking one of his allies that at such a close range, bows were ineffectual and should thus be put away. Nhiilaa noted the sword at his belt and grimaced. Idiot wouldn't last long if he didn't figure it out soon.

"We need to pick up the pace," she growled back at them as soon as she had patched up the injured guard. The guardsmen, including Burd, looked up at her wearily. How the Nord, clad completely in heavy armor, could have the energy to be asking _them_ to speed up was a mystery. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she ran forward, sword in hand, leaving the Bruma guards to have to run as well to catch up with her. With every step they became more and more tired, but that didn't seem to stop the girl. It was like she was some sort of machine, just charging forward and leaving her companions further and further behind. They soon lost her in the darkness, her conjured up light fading with her.

Captain Burd pulled ahead of his two companions, keeping Nhiilaa within his sights for the moment. She rounded the corner quickly, and he attempted to close the gap between them. From nowhere, it seemed, a tile below him shifted, and the screeching of metallic friction roared beside him. A hand pulled him back from behind and out of the way of a massive cleaver smashing down from the ceiling and into the ground where he had stood only seconds before. The blow would have killed him easily.

The hand belonged to Nhiilaa, who had stopped to wait for Burd and his men of to the side. Apparently he had not seen her in his haste. "On second thought, we should slow down just a bit," said the girl, staring back at the winded men. They all sighed with relief in unison.

… Except when Nhiilaa said "slow down," she did not mean for them to take a rest. Without another word, she being to move forward, nimbly moving past the blade that had so nearly taken the life of the captain and down the hallway. Their relief was replaced with groans of irritation, but they all followed her closely. They did not want to repeat the same mistake twice in losing her.

"Just how far until we reach the top of the tower?" Burd asked.

"Not too far, I think. Though I may be wrong. We need to find the keeper, though. He'll likely have the key we need." _He?_ '_Since when did daedra have genders_?' Burd wondered, but said nothing.

–

"So what are you doing here anyway, Isaan?" James asked after propping his feet up on the table his twin was working at, right on top of his notes. Isaan glared at his brother, irritated.

"I told you. I was sent by the Arch-Mage to offer my assistance to Jauffre. Apparently though, Jauffre says that he doesn't _need _my assistance, so he has me running petty errands for him like restocking the supply of health potions and making sure that everything is in tiptop shape. So that is what I am doing," he said, measuring out a portion of Lady's Mantle. James laughed.

"You have no idea where you are, do you?" His brother looked embarrassed.

"No..." he said finally. "I assume that it's somewhere outside of Bruma though. I'm supposed to be escorted out by one of your peers when I am ready to leave, blindfolded of course, down into the nearest city so that I can find my way back to the Imperial City on my own accord. Brother Jauffre thinks that the whole thing is a useless waste of time since he could not find much use for me. He is rather irritated with the Arch-Mage for sending someone that can't read any daedric." James rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure why the Arch-Mage sent someone up at all. I'm surprised that he knew where to send you."

"To be completely frank, I am as well. I suppose Nhiilaa must have said something to him, but he wouldn't tell me how he knew so I have no idea for sure. I suppose it was all in the note that I gave to Jauffre."

"You didn't read it?" The elder of the two Peleius brothers asked, smacking his brother on the back of the head softly. "Haven't I taught you _anything_? You always read the letters before you hand them off to someone! Always! What in the world is the matter with you?" Isaan glared at him.

"You realize that would cost me not only my standing in the Guild, but the Arch-Mage's trust? I spent a full year working to becoming his assistant!"

James scoffed. "More like his errand boy, if you ask me." Isaan muttered something about how he _hadn't_ had asked him, in fact. He ignored his brother, instead opting to stare out at the rest of the Blades in the west wing. There was Achille, who was never social enough. He was always 'busy.' Busy doing absolutely nothing was more like it. Baurus sat next to Martin, whose nose was in a book as usual. Jana... Jina... Jena, that was it. Jena sat across from Baurus, eating away at whatever food she had prepared. No sign of Karen, no Caroline, or Belisarius. They must've been on patrol.

James was bored out of his skull. How he wished to be inside the Oblivion Gate, saving Bruma from inevitable destruction. The glory, the fame! But no, he was stuck here, in this musty old temple with nothing to do while that damned Nord got to roam free and have all the fun smashing up daedra and saving the world.

Lucky little fetcher.

–

Nhiilaa barely got her shield up in time to stop the kynval's sword from crashing down on her. The only opening in the dremora's armor were just below the arms and the seam at the neck, too difficult for her to hit while trying not to be hit herself. She glanced quickly over the low railing; it was a long way to fall. It was a risk she was willing to take, however, and backed up against it. The captain and his men were too preoccupied dispatching their own combatants to notice her.

"Die, mortal!" the kynval hissed, swinging his sword again at her head. Nimbly, she ducked underneath his arm, and before the dremora realized what had just transpired, a firm shove sent him toppling over the railing headfirst onto the floor below. Everyone heard the sound of the daedric armor crashing to the floor and breaking. The other kynval, a mage, lay dead far behind them as they continued on their path to the top of the tower.

"This is it," Nhiilaa remarked. "The Sigillum Sanguis. The sigil stone is right through this door." Said door opened with the aid of the key they had looted from the corpse of the sigil keeper with a hiss. None of the warriors wasted a moment, instead charging in with blades in hand to the next room. They stopped, however, when they saw the massive spiral of fire, and the orb resting at the top of it. The chamber reeked of fire and flesh, and it wasn't until they were already walking up that the guardsmen noticed that what they were stepping on was stretched out muscle in lieu of a proper staircase. Kynval seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"You two go on ahead, we'll keep them busy!" the two guards accompanying Burd shouted. The two Nords nodded, charging up the second, metallic staircase towards the orb. Without a word, Nhiilaa plucked the stone from its resting place on top of the pillar and looked back at Burd. He looked on in horror as the world seemed to collapse around them, the two guardsmen barely able to rejoin them. Flames roared around them, the floor beneath their feet trembled, and then there was nothing. The world turned to white.

Behind them, something exploded, and it took them a minute to realize where they were. The stars above them seemed so dim and so small, and the sky so dark and black as pitch. But they were safe; more importantly, Bruma was safe. Cheers erupted around them and shouts of exaltation filled the air. It all blended together to Nhiilaa's ears. One particular guard surged forward, hugging Burd and clapping him on the back. Nhiilaa had no idea what they were saying, it was all just a dim blur.

"Did you hear me?" Burd asked, a smile on his face.

"Oh, uh. No, I'm sorry, what did you say?" She plastered a like smile on her face.

"I said, now I think that my men and I can handle any new Gate that crops up near Bruma. It was an honor to serve with you, ma'am." Burd extended his hand out to her. She took it and shook it firmly.

"I think that I should be heading back now, thank you." And so she did. Each step was more and more troublesome, and she regretted not taking Morihaus down even that short distance with every motion. The stillness of the world around her went unnoticed, and she found herself removing her armor in the currently empty armory without remembering just how she got there. However, she took it as a consequence of being in a state of exhaustion from closing the Gate. The sigil stone rolled on the floor at her feet malevolently until her bag was thrown on top of it to silence its glare.

Nhiilaa placed her armor on one of the tables with care; she would repair it tomorrow. Or the day after that, with any luck. If only she were to be so lucky, though. Outside, she could hear people calling for her, wondering where she was. News traveled fast in the temple, she found, and with a sigh, tugged on her boots and walked back into the comparative cold of the west wing. Jauffre stood there, waiting like a hawk for its prey, arms folded and looking very relieved.

"You're back," he said. Nhiilaa couldn't help but stop herself from rolling her eyes.

"You expected anything less?" she joked, forcing a smile. The Grandmaster shook his head.

"No, no, nothing like that. Good work, but the Bruma guard can't hold them off forever. The daedra of Oblivion are innumerable. We need to gather what allies we can before Bruma is besieged. If the Mythic Dawn do manage to open a Great Gate here, the city will need a _much_ stronger garrison for there to be any hope."

"What can we do about that? Ask the counts and Elder Council?" She was skeptical; like any of the counts would be willing to send their guardsmen to defend Bruma just because she asked. Unfortunately for her, Jauffre nodded.

"That is exactly what I think. You should make haste, Nhiilaa." The Nord groaned, her shoulders slumped, and she looked down at Jauffre pathetically.

"Couldn't James do it? He must not be busy. He did stay back here, after all. And his brother–"

"They are both on request from Martin. He translated another part of the _Xarxes_ and they have gone to fetch the item in question." Hate bubbled up inside Nhiilaa, her mouth opening and closing again in shock.

"You can't be serious. _They_ get to go while I get to play diplomat?" Jauffre offered no response to this, merely shrugging his shoulders and leaving her to stand there in her own befuddlement.


	29. Chapter 29

_Author's Note: A short chapter, but I felt that I should update, especially after missing about a month and a half. Health issues and NaNoWriMo formed a dual conspiracy to prevent me from writing fan fiction, which sucks. Anyways, here's to hoping that such a thing won't happen again for a while!

* * *

_Nhiilaa sat in the stables next to her horse, pouting. She didn't feel like 'making haste,' as Jauffre had so put it. She loathed the Imperial City and lacked patience for politics all together. She acquired a distaste for the looming presence of White Gold Tower since her last appearance in the city. Besides, there would be no time for her to visit with the Archmage. It was all business, no fun, and she did not want to do it. Why James and Isaan got to run errands for Martin without her made no sense, and she was filled with jealously.

She didn't even know where they had gone, and she still wanted to be with them rather than having to trek across all of Cyrodiil begging for help for a city that kept to its own business for the most part and most people did not particularly like.

Worse of all, she would be alone, with no one to complain to about how hungry she was or how tired she was, or even to make regular conversation with. She couldn't remember the last time that she had traveled by herself, but she knew that she hadn't enjoyed the experience one bit. Nhiilaa crossed her arms in defiance, no one to see her gesture but the horses. Somehow, they couldn't quite muster up the empathy to care.

Morihaus snorted with expectation, and Nhiilaa glared up at him from the freezing ground. It was a losing battle, of course, because Morihaus always got what he wanted.

"Oh fine, you win," she grumbled, standing up. "But if this turns out to be a big waste of time, you're going to be the one to blame. You and Jauffre both." Morihaus shook his mane as she climbed into the saddle, ducking her head as the horse walked himself out of the stable and down the stairs. The door was opened by one of the Blades, and the second that they had passed the threshold, the horse took off in a gallop down the winding road towards Bruma.

–

Sancre Tor, despite the clawing nuisance that was age and decay, seemed to be fighting with every last ounce of strength that the ancient walls still had in them. The air was impossibly cold, and the old fort seemed to be angry with the pervasion of its halls by James and Isaan. The twins shivered, the weight of the presence of evil a heavy burden on their shoulders and the chill seeping into their bones.

The expanse of the fort spanned below their perch on a ledge that led down to the center of the chamber. From the central point, six spokes branched out in every direction, making knowing which way to go impossible. They had been sitting for a few moments, trying to figure out which doorway to take next.

James sighed heavily, his breath coming out in white puffs. "We could be at this for hours," he said, resting his head on his gloved hand.

"Maybe days," his brother conceded. "Who knows how large this place is?" He did not sound hopeful in any slight way.

"Well, you're the smart one. Which way should we go?" James asked.

Isaan looked at him as if her were a jibbering idiot. "I know _magic_. I don't care about forts! What use do I have of the knowledge of forts?"

"You would be able to figure out which way to go."

For this, Isaan had no response. James rose, pulling his brother to his feet as well and moving to the center of the room. He rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, the shield weighing down his other.

"We might as well check this way first," he said, pointing to the door directly across from him. Isaan did not protest because, frankly, he was as much at a loss for things as his brother. The door opened, and the twins could see the armor laying on an altar in the distance, surrounded by a light blue haze. They stared at it for a moment, because they did not quite believe that it was real.

"James?" Isaan said quietly.

"Yeah?"

The two brothers blinked in unison. "We are the luckiest people in all of Cyrodiil right now. I thought you should know." James nodded, moving towards the armor. As soon as he entered the haze, however, the chill dug its nails into his flesh, knocking him backwards.

"Damn!" he swore loudly. "It was too easy. Probably have to walk all the way through that haze to get to it, like a test of worthiness or something. Maybe this is what Jauffre was talking about when he said that the place was evil?"

Isaan was less than convinced, but turned his brother to him anyway.

"What are you doing?" James asked. Isaan pressed his hand against his forehead before releasing him again. "Stop trying to kill me!"

"I'm not!" Isaan said, pushing his brother slightly. "It's a frost shield, you dolt. It should stave it off some. At the very least, I hope it will."

James rolled his eyes. "Because your confident tone is so reassuring."

"It's the best that I can do. Now go on! It will wear off soon!" James shrugged and trudged into the haze once more.

His brother had been right; it did help a good deal. He could still feel the haze's spell growing stronger and stronger with every passing step though. The further he went on, the more he could feel his energy drain, the feet beneath him threatening to give out. There was only a few more inches, and he thought that he could make it. He reached his hand out to grab the armor and hit nothing. The armor lay still behind a curtain of thick magic, impenetrable and like ice ripping through his glove.

James lost consciousness, the sound of his brothers frantic screams far behind him. He sunk to the floor.

–

Nhiilaa stood outside the Council chambers with her back against the wall for support, waiting for Chancellor Ocato to emerge. A guard looked at her, or rather past her, with unwavering eyes, like she was some sort of criminal. She certainly felt like one now, especially with that glare. Her torso ached, but she ignored the sensation. The door next to her opened, and she straightened to her full height. Ocato looked irritatedly at the Nord, but ignored her as he attempted to escape to his chambers.

"Chancellor! A word, please?" she asked, walking quickly to catch up with him. Ocato had other ideas.

"I'm afraid that I am terribly busy, no time for idle chat. I'm sorry." Though he wasn't. He escaped to the second floor and was about to make to up to the third, where citizens were not allowed to roam. However, the gnat had other ideas.

"I've been sent by the Blades!" she called after him as he was about to cross the threshold. The elf stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at her with a critical eye.

"From the Blades, you say?" Nhiilaa nodded. "What's this about? Quickly."

"Jauffre has sent me to request aid for Bruma."

Ocato's face fell. "This is terrible news. Under normal circumstances, I would dispatch a legion immediately..." Nhiilaa brightened, but Ocato cleared his throat. This did not bode well with her. "However, these are not normal circumstances, are they? The generals assure me that the Imperial Army is already fully committed. Besides... I would have a full-scale political crisis on my hands if I tried to pull any troops out of the provinces. I'm sorry, but the cities of Cyrodiil will just have to fend for themselves for the time being."

Nhiilaa stared at Ocato, baffled. She said nothing, because what he was saying was so laced with political bull that she couldn't quite figure out what he was trying to tell her.

Finally, she managed to piece it together. "What about the Elder Council? Surely they can--"

"Don't you worry. The Elder Council can govern the Empire perfectly well until a new heir can be found." Nhiilaa withheld a sarcastic laugh. "Truth be told, most of the Council has returned to the provinces to deal with urgent local matters, but we are in regular communication. But the Inner Council still holds regular meetings. We have the situation in hand, I assure you." He did not sound assured.

"That's not what I meant, you--"

"I'm sorry, but that is all the help I may offer." The elf escaped beyond the freedom of the door to the third floor, leaving Nhiilaa alone with the guards, who thought that the whole situation was rather entertaining. They choked back snickers as she left the building, shoulders slumped and her mind not at all at ease.

The noontime sun beat down on her skin, and there was still no one there to listen to her complain.

–

"--fetching twit. Can't wait for him to wake up so that I can beat the ever-loving life out of him. I hate him, so much," Isaan's voice whined above him angrily. James opened his eyes and looked up at his brother, who was faced away from him. "Bloody fetcher. I'm going to wring his fetching neck like freshly washed clothing when he wakes up. Mother will understand once I tell her what a fetching arsehole he is." James struggled to sit up, groaning in pain loudly.

"Mother would kill you if she heard you talking like a bloody sailor," he said in between coughs. Isaan whirled around where he sat and stared at his brother incompetently. "What? You're not wringing my neck like 'freshly washed clothes' I see." James smiled.

Isaan leaped and grabbed his brother in a firm, and yet somehow horribly feminine, hug. "Are you alright? By Talos, Mother would kill me if you died. I'm so glad you're alive, I don't want to die, I'm too young to die! I've never even thought about marriage yet! Oh God... I never had children. Please don't die!" Isaan spoke at an impossibly fast pace, nearly choking as he did so. James tried to free himself from the vice-like grip, but he failed miserably.

"I won't be alive for much longer without air, you twit," he gasped. Isaan released him at once, apologizing profusely. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his fist was squarely striking James in the jaw. James fell to the floor once more, in shock at the power behind the blow. For a mage, at least. James wiped the trickle of blood from his lip and looked up at Isaan. "Have you lost your fetching mind?!"

"No! And if you ever do anything so idiotic, I will ship you back to Mother in an urn! I had to pull you out of there by myself! Do you know how much you weigh, you fat fetching twit?!" James sat up again, only to find himself wrapped up into another hug from his brother. "You arsehole!"

"... Are you going to cry?" James asked in disbelief.

Isaan turned away from his brother immediately. "I most certainly am not. You're a fool."

James' smiled only broaded. "You are! Admit it, I'm your favorite sibling and you'd miss me if I were dead!"

His brother glares back at him and pushed him again. "Stop grinning like a damned idiot. We need to find a way to get those barriers down, otherwise we'll have to return to Martin empty handed, and that is unacceptable." They both rose and dusted off their respective clothing. Leaving the armor behind, they walked out of the room and back into the main hall in silence.

James looked at Isaan and grinned again. "You would miss me if I were dead, and you know it," he said, laughing.

"I wouldn't. I would be damned glad if you were dead." Isaan grumbled, racing ahead of him.


	30. Chapter 30

There was no sea salt in the air as Nhiilaa rode to the Gold Coast, but rather the stench of brimstone and decay. It was near nightfall now, and she was tired, almost too tired to cast any sort of spell, or even swing her sword. Chorrol and Skingrad had been facing the same terrors, but now could sleep easy at night knowing that those foul Gates were no longer watching over them. Kvatch had seen enough turmoil, but Savlian Matius said that he would send as many soldiers as he could. Nhiilaa doubted that could be very many, but it was at least better than the no help at all that Chancellor Ocato had been.

Now that same horror attacked what had been her home away from home, and she could not help but feel the urge to fight for the denizens of Anvil right now, but the weariness that seeped into her bones would not let her. What she needed was rest, otherwise there would be no hope for Anvil. She wouldn't be able to survive in the Gate if she went now. Even the Hero of Kvatch needed to lay her head down, maybe especially her.

Morihaus, with some odd energy, carried himself and his rider to the stables, and after the exhausted Nord slid from his sadle, looked at her. It was almost like he was concerned, which he probably was. After all, if she were dead, who would feed him? Nhiilaa nodded to Ernest, who despite the danger, sat outside with his pipe, keeping his eye on the horses. Dangerous times tended to bring out the horse thieves, and he wouldn't let it happen to any of his horses. Not if he could help it.

The streets of Anvil were eerily quiet. No one bustled about the city as they usually did, and it was like the whole town had been abandoned. The guards that patrolled looked as if they were on taut string, their shoulders and faces tense, hands ready to fly to their bows and swords at any given moment. They could handle any daedra that posed a threat, at least for a moment. Anvil was lucky in that.

Nhiilaa kept her head down as she walked through the streets to her father's house. There was no noise coming from inside, which, she had to admit, concerned her a bit. She opened the door without knocking, her own hands drifting to the hilt of her sword as she wandered through the hallway towards the kitchen. Relief then swelled inside her like water.

At the table sat her father, accompanied by two of her cousins, Hogar and Viguri. The two younger Nord men could have passed for Ingar's sons, except that Ingar was quite a bit larger, and had more chiseled features than the two. Unfortunately for them, Newheim's the Portly's trademark trait showed in their faces, and to an extent around their middle. Both of the men were about Nhiilaa's height despite being several years older than she, and even then, Hogar was an inch or so shorter.

They hadn't seen her, as they were buried in their mutton and beer, which did not surprise her at all. It wasn't until she took up the empty fourth chair at the table and reached for a shank of lamb from the center of the table that anyone paid her any attention at all. When they did finally catch sight of her, they only blinked at her, wondering if she was actually there or if they had all just gone daft.

"Hello," she said, biting into the meat.

Ingar was the first to do anything, and that was only to slap his daughter roughly on the back of the head. Hogar and Viguri just laughed at her misfortune before they both went back to slaughtering their food.

"Didn't I tell you to keep up with your letters? Didn't I?!" Ingar snapped. Nhiilaa rubbed at the back of her head before she shrugged.

"I couldn't really--"

"Oh don't you say anything. I'm just glad you're okay, you fool." Ingar smiled. Nhiilaa struggled to return the favor, sleep pulling at her eyes heavily. He grabbed her chin with his massive paw gently and turned her face from side to side. "You don't look too banged up, I suppose. I don't have to kill that Martin lad after all. S'a shame. I was almost looking forward to it after he came home with my little girl like that."

"Papa!" Nhiilaa glared and Ingar chuckled.

"S'about time you went an' got yourself hitched, Nhiiler. After all, Hogar had a wife n' kid by the time he was your age," Viguri said, mispronouncing her name on purpose. Nhiilaa was familiar with that sort of tactic, but pretended to allow it to bother her. It was fairly easy to do so, because it did actually bother her. Not that she was going to let her cousins know that. She preferred to allow them to think that they were winning this mental battle.

"So where's your wife and child, hmm? Martin is a friend, nothing more," grumbled the girl, rising to pilfer herself a bottle of beer. Alcohol was almost a prerequisite when dealing with the infernal wretches that were her cousins. Not that they were horrible people; far from it. It was because they always spoke to her as if she were inferior, and this stirred an inherent anger inside her. "'sides, what would I do with a priest? Convert him?"

"Oh relax, Nhiiler," Hogar said through his food. "We're only pullin' your leg. We know the priest ain't interested in you. You ain't exactly the prime—I mean, he has terrible taste." Ingar's glare silenced whatever 'witty' comment that was about to fly from the elder of his friend's son's mouth.

They talked for a few minutes after that, about Hogar's wife and child, how Bormir was growing up to be a fine young lad and was just like his father. How that made him a fine young man baffled Nhiilaa, but she kept her prejudices to herself. Nhiilaa's business was dodged skillfully by her redirection of the conversation to Viguri's latest adventure in attempting to find himself a wife, which was not going as well as Uncle Newheim wanted. This did not come as a shock; she couldn't blame him for wanting his twenty-one-year-old son out of his few strands of hair left.

"I suppose you're here because of that damned Gate, aren't you?" Her father's question came abruptly, though it was not a shock. It was only natural to ask as to why she was here.

"Mhm," she managed to choke out in between bites. "Well, sort of."

Viguri put down his fork and moved his hand toward his tankard. "We've been itchin' to get at that thing for days now, but the guard won't let us. Says it's too dangerous for 'civilians' to be gettin' themselves all messed up in."

"... Who is 'we'?" she asked, though she already knew.

"Me n' Hogar, 'course. Who else?"

Nhiilaa sighed heavily at her cousins and took a long swig of her beer, much to her father's chagrin. She steadied herself to speak, her thoughts buzzing around her head like an annoying fly. There had to be a way to say what she wanted without angering her cousins.

"You two are dumber than you look if you think that I'm about to let you idiots throw yourselves in that hell-spawn." The gentlest way be damned.

The cousins were dumbfounded, more so than usual. They couldn't tell whether to be enraged, upset, or what, so they decided to be angry.

"An' jus' how do you plan on stoppin' us? There're two of us 'n only one of you," Viguri said, picking up the knife from the side of his plate as if it were some sort of threatening action.

Nhiilaa was not impressed. "I don't think it would be too difficult." Ingar put his head in his hands and sighed. Children...

"Oh is that so? Jus' 'cause you're some big shot arena fighter 'n somethin'?" said Hogar.

"Considering that neither of you have any real fighting experience whatsoever? Yes, I'm pretty sure that I could." Both Hogar and Viguri opened their mouths to rebut her charges. "And requiring the help of Pinarus Inventius to kill a few mountain lions doesn't count as combat experience."

"And killin' people in staged fights does?"

Whatever was holding Nhiilaa back snapped. She stood quickly, knocking her beer from the table. The glass shattered upon impact with the floor. "You two think that you're so strong 'n everythin', but really, you're just a couple o' dock workers that barely know their heads from holes 'n th' ground!"

The shouting could be heard outside and all the way to the inn, which was nearby. Half of the patrons couldn't tell what the hell they were saying, and the Nords of the inn stared at the general direction of the ruckus, too busy laughing to tell the questioning Imperials what the hell was going on.

"Can't be too hard if you can close 'em!"

"The Gates aren't somethin' to play with! People go into them and people _die_, you bloody idiots! The daedra there are strong, and they don't hesitate to kill anyone. What would happen to your wife and kid if you got your stupid arse killed in there? How would they eat!?"

Hogar's face fell, and he looked at his brother, stepping out of the argument.

She turned her attention to Viguri. "I've killed things in the Arena with more common sense than you, and I'll have you know that the people there do _not_ have common sense, myself included!"

"Then why do you get to go in there an' not us?!" he shouted back, standing.

"Because I'm a damned idiot and I know it! But unlike you, I can hold my own in a fight and I know how to not get killed! I've spent the last six years of my damned life learnin' how to! What have you done!? Sat around the house drinkin' mead and chasin' women! You're a useless--"

"Nhiilaa, that's enough," Ingar said loudly, putting his hand on his daughter's shoulder firmly. "I have already spoken to them about this."

She glared at him for a moment, but sat down obediently. Viguri did the same, and both of their faces were crossed with looks of shame. Ingar remained standing, staring angrily at the two men.

"I think that it was time you two left. Your wife 'n da are probably worried by now," he said, pulling both of them up by their arms with considerable strength. The door slammed shut behind them, but when Ingar returned to the kitchen to have words with his daughter, she was gone. He sighed, picking the plates up from the table, ignoring the shattered glass on the floor for the moment.

–

The dead of Sancre Tor stood at the ready, as if they were saluting James and Isaan goodbye as they lifted the armor of Tiber Septim from its resting place. Honestly, the ghosts gave both of the the chills. Even as a conjurer, ghosts made Isaan... uneasy. When he aired his feelings on the subject, that he just found the whole situation to be unnatural, people laughed.

He never appreciated it when people laughed at him. He found it to be rather rude, and he did not like it at all. It was something that was a horrible habit of James', and it made him want to harm someone physically. The unwavering eyes of the ghosts bored into the back of his skull as they left hurriedly. Personally, Isaan felt that he could not move his legs nearly fast enough.

Summoning daedra was one thing, but ghosts was another. Or rather, it was the dead in general. He had never felt quite right about disturbing skeletons and specters from their supposedly-final rest. Necromancy made his skin crawl, like there were insects pent up inside him, dying to escape the prison of his flesh. He would do it if he had to, but he was never at ease with it. Not like his peers seemed to be. Not like Falcar had been. Even before he was caught practicing, he had always been open about his defense of the black arts.

Seeing the dead of Sancre Tor in such misery, unable to just die for the last time, it burdened him greatly. Guilt blackened his heart like tar.

The sun was dead and gone by the time that they emerged, and both of them were bloody and bruised. James was a bit worse off than his brother, but that was due to the fact that Isaan spent all of his time casting spells far, far, _far,_ behind him. They walked back to their horses, whom they had borrowed from Cloud Ruler. They had left Bala at the temple, lest Nhiilaa throw a fit, like James expected she would anyway when she found that they had left without her, and they were both sore without the speedier horse. Paint horses were not known for their speed, unfortunately. Still, it was better than nothing.

Though not by much.

The stars watched the two brothers as they rode towards Bruma, the armor held safely by Isaan as his steed bounced underneath him rhythmically. The night was calm and at rest, but neither brother could shake the feeling that they were on the edge of a razor's blade.

–

Nhiilaa lay still underneath the cold blankets of her childhood room. The bed seemed awfully small now, and she wondered if she'd grown taller since her last visit. It was hard to keep track. She hadn't felt taller than usual, but who could tell when she was already one of the tallest, if not the tallest, in any given group of people at one time. She tried to remember whether or not she was able to see over Ocato's head or not.

The door opened quietly, and soft candle-light filled the room. Her father's form cast a shadow in the doorway and over her eyes, which she refused to open. She felt like a fool, bursting out in anger like that. She would be surprised if her father didn't disown her, or worse, be disappointed in her and play with that 'passive-aggressive' type of speech.

"Nhiilaa, I know that you're not asleep," he said after staring at her for a while. The girl opened her eyes and sat up, pushing the warmth of the blankets aside. Ingar moved and sat next to her, placing the candle and its holder on the side-table and his arm around her shoulders.

"M'sorry..." she mumbled, not daring to look at her father for fear of his anger. He hugged her closer.

"I know you are. And I know that for all your bellyachin' about how much you hate them, you love your cousins dearly. You're just being like a little sister to them, and you don't want them to die."

"Sure, we can go with that," said the girl, rolling her eyes.

Ingar laughed shallowly. "S'true. Anyone can see that. They're family. Family looks out for one another. Truth be told, they're just as worried about you as you are them."

She looked up at him then. "That's a damned lie."

"Don't speak to your father like that. You may be an adult, but you're still my little girl." Ingar's rebuke had no anger in it. "They are concerned. That's why they're willin' to risk their stupid heads for you. They can't... say it, because they don't know how, but they are. You're their favorite cousin, after all. They don't like the fact that you're runnin' around Cyrodiil, closin' Gates and everything, while they have to sit at home and let you do all the work."

"So they're jealous, not worried. There's a difference."

"And I can tell that they're not. Why is it so hard for you to believe that people don't want you dead?" He sighed heavily. Guilt wracked Nhiilaa's heart.

"M'sorry... again... But I can handle it! It's not... it's not... I can take care of myself." Ingar turned fully to her, placing both hands on her shoulders and staring square at her.

"Nhiilaa, you're my daughter. You're their cousin. Of _course_ we're all going to be worried. We wouldn't deserve to be your family if we weren't. We _know_ that you can handle it. That doesn't mean we're not going to pray every day that you just come home alright. The Empire could collapse around Ocato's damned head for all we care, just as long as you're all right."

"I know. But I don't want you to worry. Worrying about me doesn't do you any good..."

"Well too bad, because we are going to worry. You'll just have to learn to deal with it and stop being so self-sacrificing. You are worth it."

Nhiilaa looked up at her father and returned his hug, smiling. They stayed quiet for several short minutes before finally breaking apart. Ingar ruffled his daughter's hair, still in its messy braid, and she tried to flatten it back down with one hand.

She looked down, again feeling guilty. "Tomorrow, I'm going to close the Gate and then continue to the other cities. I'm sorry that I can't stay long, but the sooner I get back, the sooner James and I can go do more errand for Mar--"

The words were already out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying. She looked up at him, hoping that he wouldn't go on a tangent about how she shouldn't go and how stupid she was for doing so. Ingar frowned.

"... Who in Oblivion is James? An Imperial?" he asked, and Nhiilaa's cheeks burned with embarrassment, though she wasn't sure why.

"Erm. Yes?"

Ingar laughed loudly. "Are you _collecting_ them now?" Nhiilaa laughed as well, pushing her father away from her playfully. He got up and took his candle with him, leaving her in the dark of her bedroom.

"Goodnight, hatchling."

"'Night, Papa."

The door shut, and Nhiilaa fell quickly into a dreamless slumber.


	31. Chapter 31

Cheydinhal was the last city that she could seek aid from before returning to Cloud Ruler Temple. With any luck, it would be quick like the rest of the cities: Go into the Gate, take the sigil stone, accept the aid, and thanks, of the count of the city, then be on her merry way back to Martin, who would in all likeliness send her back out immediately.

If only she could be so lucky.

A guardsman stood in her way of the gate., a look of slight irritation couple with mild concern on his face. Nhiilaa swore inwardly before approaching him, as he was clearly not about to move from his post.

"You're going to want to stay back, miss," he said. The word grated on Nhiilaa's patience. "We've got strict orders from Count Indarys to hold our position until Farwil returns from the other side."

"All that, for one person? That seems a little... odd."

The guard attempted to control the urge to roll his eyes. "Farwil is Count Indarys' son. He went in there about two days ago with the rest of his 'knights'. We haven't seen or heard from them since. Count Indarys is offering a reward to anyone who can get his son out of there... or bring confirmed news of his death. If you see him or his Knights of the Thorn, be sure to get them out of there. I'm sure that the Count wants this gate closed."

She nodded, moving towards the Gate. The guardsman looked at her. "There are seven of them in there. Even though they're annoying, I hope they're not hurt... or worse." Nhiilaa put her helmet on and stepped through the Gate without sparing a backwards glance to the guard. The now-familiar stench of Oblivion hit her violently, the heat of the air bearing down on her heavily.

In the not-too-far-off distance, the sigil tower glared at her like an ever-watching guardian. The Nord ignored its evil stare, and she began to make her way down the side of the volcanic mountain, hacking down daedra as she came upon them.

The tunnels of the realm swallowed her up like a beast, the nearly-toxic air forcing her breath to become shallower than she'd have liked, and the cries of clannfear surrounded her in the caverns.

Nhiilaa emerged from the tunnels bloodied, but otherwise no worse for wear. She didn't know whether the blood was hers or not, but she preferred to think of it as not so. The skies overhead thundered with rage at her success, and she could hear the shuffling of steel boots to her side. She looked towards the sound and saw a Dunmer walking towards her, and an Imperial looking at his assumed-companion tiredly, but with relief in his eyes. Both men were injured, but the Imperial was far worse off.

"It's about time someone got here," the Dunmer said, crossing his arms in irritation. "What took you so long?"

The Nord removed her ebony helmet and tucked it underneath her arm. "Excuse me?" she asked, aghast at his curtness. Then she remembered the words of the guard as she had entered the Gate, and it was all clear. "You must be Farwil."

Farwil, at the sight of her face, took a step or so back before regaining his princely composure. "I am indeed Farwil Indarys, son of Count Indarys of Cheydinhal." He did not ask for her name.

Nhiilaa sighed. She could tell it was going to be a longer trip than she had anticipated. "I'm Nhiilaa," she said, not bothering to extend her hand to him. "What's happened here? Why are you both so injured?"

"I set out with the rest of the Knights to destroy this blemish on the face of our fine world. When we arrived, we were overwhelmed. I myself was able to kill two score of them, but they just kept coming," he said. Nhiilaa bit her tongue so that she did not speak the thoughts that were running through her mind. "Only Bremman and I remain alive. However, with you here now, we can take the sigil stone from that citadel and complete our quest for the good of all Cheydinhal! Huzzah!"

She stared at the elf, unsure of whether to laugh or push him off the rock right then and there. "We should backtrack through the tunnels and get you out of here. The daedra have been thinned in those areas and--"

"Are you mad?" Farwil interrupted. "A Knight of the Thorn never returns home until the mission is done. It is our way. Now, in my father's name as Count Indarys of Cheydinhal, I _order_ you to lead me to that sigil stone! I suggest we use the Reman Sweep Formation. You'll assault the front, and we'll guard the rear flank. Upward and onward! Huzzah!"

Contrary to Farwil's rant, Nhiilaa did not move upward and onward. In fact, she stood quite still, her hands firmly planted to her hips. She had half a mind to simply leave him here to die, but that would not be beneficial to her cause. So she put her personal feelings aside and looked to Bremman.

"What are you waiting for?" snapped the Dunmer.

"We're not going anywhere until your companion's wounds are attended to. Unless you want him to die too, that is." Nhiilaa moved to where the Imperial sat and roughly took his arm in her hands to examine it, causing him to wince. She was too irritated to care.

Farwil glared at the back of Nhiilaa's head as she removed her gauntlets from her hands and set them on the ground next to her shield and helm. Bremman closed his eyes as she sealed the wounds quickly with a basic spell, as she did not want to waste her energy at the moment. They would just be reopened later anyway.

All was quiet for a minute as the Dunmer silently fumed, but looked to the direction of the citadel. "Even if he doesn't say it, we appreciate that you're here," Bremman said, ignoring his inglorious leader's inaudible self-pity.

"He doesn't seem that way," she said as she rolled her eyes. Bremman laughed.

"Oh, don't just him too harshly. He's young and inexperienced, and all he wants to do is please his father, but fighting to protect Cheydinhal is in his heart. I just wish his heart was bigger than his hubris." Nhiilaa went back over the wounds a second time so that they would at least offer some resistance to reopening. "I'm sure you want to hear the real story."

"That would be more beneficial than Farwil's extravagant fairy tale, yes."

The Imperial felt his wounds and cleared his throat. "Not long after the Gate opened, Farwil decided that an assault was in order. We charged inside and were immediately met with resistance. Three were cut down in the first wave, but Farwil wanted to press on. We got to the base of the citadel when we met a larger second wave. We lost two more in that skirmish, and both Farwil and I were injured. After that, we tried to retreat, but were blocked off by the daedra. So, we were stuck here until you came around." He then muttered something about how the whole situation was 'just like Farwil.' He stood and flexed his hands.

Nhiilaa looked back at the Dunmer and sighed with annoyance, again. She wanted to escort them back to the Gate and see them safely to the other side before returning to assault the tower on her own, but she could see that there was no way to do that while that blasted mer still had his pride. From the state of his armor and weapon at his hip, it was apparent that the boy could barely swing his sword with any real grace, let alone fight daedra properly. Bremman, on the other hand, looked as if he could hold his mace proficiently. Perhaps that was enough to balance out Farwil's incompetence.

She doubted it, but it was worth a shot. "Keep your weapons out and stick close to me. If you get in the way of my sword, it's your own damned fault if you get cut, and if you fall behind, you get left behind," she said. She shoved her gauntlets back onto her hands and her helm onto her head, picked up her shield, and moved down the side of the mountain at a quick pace. Farwil and Bremman struggled to match it, but did so because they did not doubt for one moment the seriousness of her threat.

… Of course, that didn't stop Farwil from ignoring her in other ways. His sword was neatly tucked into its sheath right as a small group of dremora ambushed them, and it took more than a moment for him to free it once more. By the time he had, they were dead and Nhiilaa was staring back at him with a scowl on her face. This didn't stop him from resheathing his weapon.

He was proving to be more of a liability than an asset, and Nhiillaa was giving serious consideration to tossing him into the lava herself. That was, however, very, _very_ wrong, and very, _very _tempting.

The keep now stood before, and over them, and for once in his life Farwil realized just how small he was. He gulped, and his Nordic compatriot could practically hear him shivering in his armor. It was too late to turn back now though, and Nhiilaa opened the door with her somewhat-free hand, ushering both himself and Bremman into the dark halls.

A green light surrounded their feet, and he looked back at her nervously.

"There's no point to stealth here," she said, pointing at the sword at his belt and surging forward, her battle cry echoing through the chamber above the roar of the torrent of molten rock at the center.

–

Unlike Oblivion, Tamriel, specifically Cloud Ruler Temple, was cold. Martin sat in the warm hall, still poring over the _Xarxes_, as to be expected. James stood outside, watching Bruma sleep. Snow fell on the land before him, and the flame of his torch had little comfort from the chill.

"What are you doing out here?" Isaan asked from behind him as he stuffed his hands into the folds of his robes to try and retain warmth.

His brother shrugged and went back to watching. "Standing guard. What's it look like?"

"Like you're waiting."

"Well I'm not."

"I'm just telling you what it looks like. You did ask, after all."

James sighed and turned to Isaan, who simply grinned at him. It was an odd look for his brother. He wondered if he looked as ridiculous when he did the same thing. "What do you want?" he asked.

Isaan shrugged. "Nothing in particular. Am I not allowed to talk to my own brother now?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Of course I do. That doesn't mean I'm not going to employ it to make you feel guilty about it." Isaan's grin grew broader.

"But now that I know that is your intention, I'm not likely to do so, now will I?"

"You already do."

The elder twin swore under his breath. Little bastard was right, as usual. James sat on the cold ground, his brother following suit and stiffened with discomfort as the icy weather sank into the fabric of his clothing.

A thought dawned on James suddenly. "... You got kicked out of the Great Hall, didn't you?" The look on Isaan's face spoke louder than his voice. "What'd you do this time?"

"Nothing... really. I suppose Martin is just frustrated. For a priest, he has a bit of a temper. Not something you would have expected at all from him. I suppose that we're all tense, considering the situation, but still."

"He has every right to be frustrated. He has to read that evil book all day and listen to your babbling every other one. Any less patient man would have killed you by now. I'm surprised he hasn't."

"Oh harhar, because you're such an easy person to deal with. I'm trying to have a serious conversation here, and you're turning it into a joke. Typical."

"You big baby. You take everything too seriously. There's enough gloom and doom around this place without you creating anymore of it. 'Sides, I don't think Jauffre would appreciate our talking about our future ruler in such a negative way. It's not becoming to him."

Both brothers shuddered at the thought of what they imagined Jauffre would do to them if he had been listening. Whatever it was, it couldn't be pleasant.

–

Nhiilaa was nearly at her wit's end when it came to the Dunmer. It was almost as if he didn't _care_ whether he was killed or not. The boy had forgotten all fear whatsoever, and with it, all of his common sense. He ran in front of her blade, nearly fell behind more than once, and sheathed his weapon after every minor skirmish. More than one of his gashes was due to Nhiilaa's sword, and she couldn't help but wonder how the idiot was still alive.

Not that Bremman was any better. Those two nearly killed each other every time they swung. They were ill-trained and full of pride, no matter how sincere Bremman had originally come off as. Luckily, they were on the final ascension of the main tower of the keep, and she knew that the sigil stone was close. Mehrunes Dagon was apparently one for uniformity, fortunately for her.

Bremman's mace whistled past her scalp, and she ducked underneath it almost too late. Farwil's sword clashed against the handle of the mace, and the recoil sent him spiraling back and nearly falling down the ramp they stood at the top of. Nhiilaa bashed her shield into the face of the nearest dremora, sending it crashing into the protrusions of the worship benches they fought around, impaling it.

The sounds of battle quieted, leaving nothing but the desperate pants of the Dunmer and Imperial, and Nhiilaa's angry breathing. Farwil tried to place his sword back into its scabbard, but was interrupted by a firm yank of the wrist by the Nord.

"Keep your damned blade out, you bloody fetcher, or I will feed you to the dremora myself. I am tired of your bumbling to pull it out every time there is an attack!" she snapped harshly. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Nhiilaa tightened her grasp on his wrist to silence him. "And no, I don't _care_ that you're the Count's son. Somehow, I doubt that the dremora will either."

She released his wrist and continued her ascension, cutting down daedra whenever she saw them. Bremman and Farwil were no longer her concern, and she sped on without giving them much more than a sparse thought. It was up to them to keep up with her, and she could hear them sprinting behind her.

The familiar stench of rotting flesh filled her nostrils as she opened the door to the Sigillum Sanguis. Behind her, her companions gagged. She motioned to them and nearly ran across the volcanic flooring, the smell burning and growing more pungent as she neared the center. Before them, the volcanic spired ended, but still towered high. She could see the sigil stone just barely at the top before she had to avert her eyes from the blinding light.

Her feet found a lack of sure footing as she climbed the stairs, Farwil and Bremman at her heels. The cries of daedra could be heard chasing after them as they rounded about and began to run across the stretched-out staircase of muscles towards the stone. The two paused to dispatch of some of the daedra, but Nhiilaa never broke stride, her eyes focused on the goal. It was hot in her hands as she plucked it from its resting place, and the din of the fighting fell far away as the world of Oblivion collapsed about her, leaving her, and a very much alive Farwil and Bremman, standing in the middle of the fields near Cheydinhal.

The guard looked at her, then at the two Knights of the Thorn. He wasn't quite sure that he believed what he saw, and promptly lost consciousness. Nhiilaa picked the guard up, and with Bremman's aid, carried him to his peers at the gate, where she left him and headed straight for the castle. The Dunmer chased after her, gibbering about how she was to be the latest member of the Knight of the Thorn. She tossed the bauble he attempted to hand her on the ground, and a beggar promptly scooped it up.


	32. Chapter 32

_Author's Note: I am extremely unhappy with this chapter, as it was really difficult for me to find the time to write it between all of my classes. I'm very sorry for having such a long haitus... again. This chapter probably doesn't make any sense whatsoever and is more filler than anything else, to be completely honest. Filler that I'm really _really_ unhappy with. D:_

_EXTRA NOTE: Okay, why the HELL is there Chinese in my chapter? I don't remember writing in Chinese! Uh. Just hang tight until I get this fixed, I suppose. Sorry about this D:_

_Extraextra note: So I fixed the Chinese problem. Huzzah for that!  
_

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* * *

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Early morning was Martin's favorite time to awaken, he decided. The Temple was always its most quiet at that time. Everyone was still asleep, including Jauffre, thank the Divines, and the only people who were awake were the few Blades put on patrol, and even they seemed to almost sleep at their posts. That was a foolish idea, but they were definitely more relaxed in the morning.

He opened the door to the Great Hall, Baurus at his heels. The Redguard had taken over from Steffan as Martin's personal bodyguard. Not that Martin minded; Baurus was good company to keep and, despite the seriousness of everything, was always more light-hearted than his peers amongst the Blades. On top of that, he was decently educated, and was quite useful to bounce ideas off of as to the translation of the _Xarxes_, unlike James' poor brother. The conjurer knew his daedra and his daedric, to be sure, but he was always so easily distracted that any ideas coming from him were difficult to discern amidst the rest of the babble. It was like he knew too much for his own good.

This morning, Martin did not pick up the _Xarxes _as he customarily did the moment he awoke. He would have, but found that he couldn't, because a Nord was currently using his makeshift desk as a pillow, the unholy book trapped underneath a copy of _A Warp in the West_, which was supporting the girl's head. Tangles of blonde hair covered in both dirt and blood, presumably someone else's, obscured the girl's face, but there was no mistaking her. Gingerly, Martin tugged slightly at her long braid. She didn't budge an inch.

He let her be for the moment, and moved past her to the dining hall. Caroline and Belisarius chatted quietly in one corner, though they immediately stood to salute Martin as he entered. He still was not used to that, and doubted that he ever would be. They sat and resumed their conversation, leaving him to prepare his own food in peace, as he liked it. He returned then to the Great Hall and placed a bowl of whatever concoction he had created by Nhiilaa's sleeping face, causing her to stir slightly.

She looked up at him and blinked for a moment, not realizing quite just where she was. She then sat up, found the bowl on the table, and promptly began to inhale the contents of the bowl indiscriminately. The priest laughed slightly, and Baurus just shook his head, smiling.

Martin found an extra chair from some corner of the room and sat down at the opposite side of the table, waiting for Nhiilaa to finish as he ate his own portion at a much slower rate. It didn't take her long at all, and she set the bowl back down where it had originally been placed.

She was still in her armor, Martin noted, and that was in disrepair and bloodied. It was apparent that she had returned to Cloud Ruler without pause after whatever debacle had occurred while she was gone, and then promptly fell asleep. He felt a pang of guilt, but then she smiled broadly and it was erased.

"G'morning," she said as she let out an unladylike yawn. Martin smiled briefly.

"Good morning," he replied. "How long have you been back?"

Nhiilaa paused and thought for a moment. "Erm... about three hours I suppose? You wouldn't believe the time I had trying to gather aid for Bruma. It was absolutely mad. Apparently Gates have been cropping up all over the place, especially around the cities, and so none of the Counts or Countesses would allow any guards to be sent until they were gone. Guess who was stuck with that?"

"You?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh of course." The Nord rocked back in her chair and stretched. "It wasn't terribly difficult, as far as closing Gates goes. Well, except for Cheydinhal. Let me tell you, Farwil Indarys is a s'wit. Count Indarys should hope he never kicks off, otherwise that city would fall before nightfall with his son on the throne."

Baurus coughed, attempting to cover up his laughter.

"That reminds me... You want a sword? Count Indarys gave me this 'heirloom' for saving his idiotic son's life and not killing him myself. It's nice, but it's too heavy and frilly for my taste." She pulled out the Thornblade and unsheathed it, pointing to the serrations on the blade. "See, it'd just get stuck in a corpse and make it hard to pull back out. Fine for slashing, but not stabbing."

Everything she had just said bounced off Martin and fell to the ground like a ton of weights. It was clear that he had no idea as to what she meant, and he blinked for a moment. "Erm. No thank you. I er... can't use swords very well..."

"Ah... well. You can have it anyway. Put it on your mantle or something, I suppose. I don't want it at all. It's supposed to be enchanted, and I figure it'll be in better hands with the Emperor than mine." She handed him the sword, which fell into his lap heavily. He winced from the pain, and Baurus took the sword from him quickly, garnering the future Emperor's thanks.

Nhiilaa yawned and scratched at the blood in her hair. She frowned at it and rose, bidding both Baurus and Martin farewell and walking off towards the West Wing of the temple. She greeted James as she left, and the Imperial just stared at her, startled at her appearance. He looked back at Martin, who shrugged, but said nothing before picking up the _Xarxes _and dedicating the rest of the day towards its translation.

James remained at his post at the door and watched the priest in silence, and time seemed to pass at a crawling pace in the Temple.

A few hours later and the Nord emerged, the carnage of travel cleansed from her skin, her hair combed and bound tightly in her traditional plait. She sat at the table that was being occupied by Martin and sighed. After a few minutes, she began to poke at the armor of Tiber Septim absent-mindedly. James sucked in his breath in horror.

"Don't touch it! Jauffre will murder us all if he catches you," he snapped, flicking her hand away. Nhiilaa crinkled her nose in irritation, sat back, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Why? It's just armor," said the girl as she leaned.

James rolled his eyes. "It's Tiber Septim's armor. It's a holy relic. I did not just almost die for anything less than holy, damnit, so don't touch it." Nhiilaa sighed again, but stopped prodding at the ancient metal and rocked back in her chair. The armor just sat there, mocking her, begging to be poked, especially now that it was forbidden from doing so. She bit her lip in mild irritation and stared back at the metal, returning its glare match for match. Minutes passed with no sign of détente from either party.

"What are you--" came James' voice, but was cut off by the Nord shushing him and waving him away with her hand. By now, she leaned forward, pressed against the table and partially hiding behind both her hands and the edge of the wood. It was like she was stalking the relic, waiting for a crack in its defensive armor and the lapse of notice by its guard. That was when she would strike.

It was also by this time that Martin noticed what she was doing and looked down at her from behind the _Xarxes_. "Oh by Talos," grumbled the priest. He sighed and touched the object of her current obsession lightly with a single finger. "Are you happy now?"

Apparently not, because all she did was glare back at him and sit back in her chair, clearly pouting. Like a child, in fact.

–

_"Nhiilaa, will you please stop that?" Hjotra hissed at her daughter after taking yet another artifact from the child's hands and placing it back on the cart where it belonged. There were few relics in her possession, and the ones that she _did_ have she would have liked to kept intact. The girl sat in the snow in protest of the whole thing._

_ Packing up an entire life was not the woman's favorite activity, to be sure, but it had been her idea to leave their native land of Skyrim. After all, Alyeid artifacts and ruins did not exactly grow in the massive forests of the mountains. Ijorta was not at all pleased with this decision, and she thought her father was quite the traitor for supporting it. The girl was in love with the snow, the mountains, and especially the forests. But, Hjotra thought it was the best thing to do, and Ingar agreed. Business was booming in the south and was growing stagnant in the north._

_ It wasn't to be permanent either, she rationalized. They would be back. And Bruma wasn't all that different from their village near Falkreath. Or so she heard. She hoped with all her heart that it wasn't._

_ Newheim placed another crate of their belongings into the cart and picked up the six-year-old from her nest in the snow. She kicked at the portly man violently and clawed at his arms with her tiny hands, but the thick fur mittens on them prevented her from being in any way, shape, or form, damaging to the oiled leather. Hjotra clambered onto a makeshift seat at the back of the cart amidst all of her life's work and belongings, and took the child from Newheim's hands, holding the squirming thing in her lap._

_ There was a lump in her throat as she watched her relatives poured from their houses to say their goodbyes. None of them understood Ingar's supposed choice to pack up his wife and child and leave the safety of home, and none approved of it, for that matter. But still, they were family._

_ The cart shook with motion, prompting the child to double her efforts to pry herself from her mother's grasp, and nearly did. Their home shrank in the distance, and finally faded out of view, and the snow turned to slush as the group traveled further and further south._

–

The snow of Cyrodiil was deceiving. It looked the part, but was never quite cold enough for Nhiilaa's taste. It was too wet, too warm, too... like water. Like rain, even. It melted upon impact with the flesh of her exposed hands, and yet it still did not chill her, and while the other Blades shivered and huddled amongst themselves in the Great Hall and around the fire, she stood outside, keeping watch with a somewhat-vigilant eye.

Fresh powder dotted the land as far as she could see in the darkness of dusk, but Bruma lay south glowing from innumerable torches and flames. It would have been idyllic if not for the construction of the buildings, the walls, the city on a whole. Bruma was Cyrodiil's pretender to the throne, at least to her. A cheap imitation of the simplicity of Skyrim, it would—no, could—never be the same as her home, no matter how hard it tried.

Slosh had matted her hair to her scalp annoyingly by the time when Baragon, in his perpetual _wonderful_ mood, came to relieve her from her post so that she too could join her fellow Blades—though they didn't seem very fellow to her—in the Hall and listen to stories and laughter that she'd rather not hear. Still, she went anyway. It was something to do, at the very least.

–

Isaan had absolutely no idea why he had been sent to Cloud Ruler Temple. No bloody idea whatsoever. Traven had been so abrupt with his dismissal as his assistant; though he hadn't gone and said that he was fired explicitly, he'd called it a "temporary reassignment." Now it was two years of his bloody life dedicated to the whims of that crotchety old geezer wasted in a blink of the eye, and he was freezing his bloody ass off in this forsaken, frosty hell-hole. It was hard for him to understand how the Nords endured this sort of ice year after year after year.

He pouted. It was the only thing that he could do at the moment, because quite frankly, Isaan was useless. He was a good conjurer, though he liked to think that he was a better researcher and instructor on arcane theory and history, but what use was that here? Ooh, the mage can summon daedra at whim and can ramble on and on about the effects of the ruin of Alyeid society on the development of magick! _Fascinating. _That will be _so _useful in assisting the translation of the _Xarxes_. Surely he would be an integral part of this adventure and his name would go down in the history books as a hero.

Snow was cold, and he disliked it very much. Even around the fire, there was snow everywhere! Except inside, it was melted and wet and greased the wood panels, causing him no end of aches and pains when he inevitably slipped and fell. He seemed to be the only one with this problem, he noted.

Why, oh why did Traven send him here? Had he botched a project, some notes, a spell somehow? He couldn't remember something of that sort of ilk. He was so careful in everything that he did, documenting his procedures and daily movements down to the bitter minutia to be reviewed by the Arch-Mage at a later date.

Maybe that was it? Perhaps it was all that useless documentation and red-tape that he'd been so insistent upon. Maybe, just maybe, Traven disliked his thoroughness, because magick was anything but thorough and it certainly wasn't careful?

That was preposterous, he decided. You could _never_ be too careful.

Whatever the reason, it was James' fault, and Isaan resigned to being cross with his elder twin. He folded his arms over and glared at the swordsman from across the room. Of course it was his fault, Mother had always liked him better. James' swordplay always took precedent over Isaan's mystical education, and Mother had no time for the poor boy's love of the arcane. Magick gave her a headache, he thought. Traven had probably found that his twin was a Blade and thought to send Isaan to him in order to get the pest out of his hair.

That was ridiculous. Isaan wasn't a pest. He was a good mage, and a better assistant. Whatever Traven's reasoning, it was most likely for Isaan's benefit. He should trust his mentor, believe that he had Isaan's best interests at heart when he sent him away.

This was all James' fault. Prat.


End file.
